“It wouldn’t be wise,” whispered Stan.
“Well, perhaps not; but the thought of that fat, smooth, comfortable-looking poodle coming in here smiling and rubbing his hands puts me in a perspiration.”
“Perhaps he’ll be ashamed to show himself.”
“What!” cried Blunt. “Mao ashamed? You don’t know him. You see if he doesn’t come cringing in, just as if nothing had happened, to ask if there is a load ready for him to take down to the port.—What do you say, Lawrence?”
“The same as you do, sir.”
Half-an-hour later the matter discussed was put to the proof, for there was the soft, shuffling sound of a Chinaman’s boots in the passage, and the tindal of the boat in which Stan had arrived with Wing gave a gentle tap, pushed the door, and entered, smiling profusely and bowing to Blunt and Stan, before taking up his post half-way to the desks, hat in hand, waiting to be addressed.
Blunt heard him, but paid no heed for a minute or so; then looking up sternly, he saluted the man with a deep-toned—
“Well, sir, what do you want?”
“Come see when load leady fo’ Chee-ho boat.”
“How dare you come and ask after deserting us as you did? Why, we might have been all massacred, you cowardly scoundrel, for all you’d have done to save us. What have you got to say for yourself?”