They were Chinese.
“Coolies. Smuggled coolies, as I live,” exclaimed Ensign Warwick, “and scared stiff.”
No wonder. With those doors opening so mysteriously, that strange light coming from the darkness, brighter than the noonday sun, searching out every nook of the interior, and with not a human being in sight, it was no wonder, indeed, that the ignorant coolies were frightened.
“Poor devils,” commented the naval officer to Jack. “I have nothing against them. They are good enough fellows in their own surroundings, but have been made the pawns of these smugglers.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try to talk to them. Do the rest of you line up on each side of the doorway.”
With that he stepped into the open.
“Who speaks English?” he called clearly.
The big group swayed a little, as if its members were ready to fly apart and break into flight. In a moment a Chinaman in civilian clothes, as distinguished from the sort of convict’s uniform of dark blue pants and blouse worn by the others, stepped a pace or two forward. He moved unwillingly, but evidently was awed by the appearance of the naval officer in uniform.
“Me speakee Englis,” he said. “Me Cholly Lung.”