“Morning, Mr Lynn,” came the next minute in the manager’s harsh voice. “So you’re beforehand with me. Have you arranged with Wing?”
“No; of course not,” was the reply. “I have not said a word.”
“That’s right.—Here, Wing!”
The Chinaman stepped on to the wharf, and a short conversation ensued, during which Stan stepped forward with Lawrence, who chatted with him about the boat and its capabilities.
“Very little room,” he said; “but there are arrangements for cooking, and any one could spend a month in her up the river very comfortably.”
“Wing,” shouted the manager, “we’ve done our business, so we may as well chat over the arrangements for your start.”
“Yes. When will it be?” asked Stan.
“The sooner the better. Wing here is always ready. I should suggest an early dinner, and then making a start so as to get as high up the river as you can before night.”
Wing smiled assent, and then played the part of captain by leading the way on board and doing the honours of the boat.
After this there was a little discussion about stores, which the Chinaman was ordered to obtain, and in half-an-hour Stan found himself within measurable distance of making a start. That afternoon there was a hearty send-off, and Stan was waving his cap in answer to the cheers of the party gathered upon the wharf, while the light boat glided along in obedience to the action of its tall, narrow matting sail, the big building rapidly beginning to look dwarfed; while as soon as the Chinese boatmen had got their sails to draw well they squatted down in the forepart of the boat, one keeping a lookout, and their chief, aft behind the cabin, holding the long steering-oar.