“Out with it, then, and let’s know the worst.”
The trembling Chinaman hesitated for a few moments more, and then pressed up towards his chief and whispered something quickly in his ear.
“What!” roared the manager, catching him fiercely by the shoulders and making the poor fellow utter a piteous wail as he turned to Stan as if for help.
“Wing can’t help,” he cried. “Wing no want tell baddee news.”
“Then you’ve brought bad news?” said Stan excitedly.
“Velly bad news. Wing can’t help. T’ink bes’ come tell Misteh young Lynn dead and allee bad news.”
“Yes, yes,” said Stan impatiently.—“The poor fellow’s half-frightened out of his wits, Mr Blunt. You’re too harsh with him now he’s in such a weak state.—Look here, Wing; it’s all right. You see matters are not so bad. I’m not hurt, and Mr Blunt does not blame you.”
“But Wing can’t help,” pleaded the poor fellow. He waved his hands and looked round at the clerks and warehousemen, who were drawing up wondering why their chief had seized the returned agent so fiercely; while some of his fellow-countrymen also began to draw near, the sight of “the Boss,” as they called him, apparently about to punish one of them being irresistible, and whispers ran round in two languages, Anglo-Saxon and the base alloy known as “Pidgin,” inquiring what Wing had done.
There was silence now for quite half-a-minute, during which time the pressure of the manager’s hands, or that of poor Wing’s feelings, had the effect of squeezing out a few tears, which swelled and swelled till they were big enough to roll over the man’s eyelashes and find their way into a couple of curved creases which made his mouth look as if it had been placed between parentheses.
Down these gullies in the Chinaman’s skin the tears ran till they dripped from his chin, and possibly it was the sight of them that brought Blunt out of his stern fit of thinking, for he suddenly loosed his hold and dropped his hands to his sides, saying hoarsely: