“Yes; I think so. Do you think we shall have to run away from some of these men?”
“Yes. Lun away and hide.”
“Oh, I suppose I could run well enough,” replied Stan; “but of course I don’t want to.”
“No; Wing don’t want lun away, but pilate—soljee makee him. Velly fass; come cuttee head off.”
“This is pleasant!” thought Stan. “It sounds like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
The consequence of this conversation was that whenever Stan could tear his eyes from the beauty and novelty of the shore on either side he was narrowly scanning the various vessels which came into sight, the greater part being small sailing-boats. But every now and then in the course of the day the tall matting sails of some towering junk would come gliding round a bend, partially hidden, perhaps, by the trees which fringed the banks; and as soon as this was seen, Stan noted that there was a little stir among the quiet, placid-looking boatmen, who began to whisper among themselves. Then, if Wing had not seen the stranger, one of them moved to where he stood and drew his attention to the distant object.
The guide seemed to be gifted with wonderfully powerful sight, which he generally used with the result that every man was placed at his ease at once. But not always. To use a nautical phrase, Wing was not upon every occasion satisfied with the cut of the stranger’s jib, and upon these occasions he turned to his young master.
“Young Lynn lettee Wing look flou’ double eyeglass?”
The binocular was handed at once, and after a great deal of focussing, handed back.
“No pilate. Tea-boat. Allee good man.”