George snatched the glass.
Hank was right. There was a girl amidst the horrid crowd. She was no longer crying, she had taken her seat on the sand in a dejected sort of manner and seemed watching the others as they moved about at their work. Even at that distance, it was obvious that she was of a different class from the rest.
“Well, I’m damned,” said George.
“Look! that beastly big chap seems jawing at her.” Hank snatched the glass.
He saw the long man standing in front of the girl whom he seemed to have ordered to her feet; he seemed angry about something. Then the unfortunate girl turned and went off towards one of the tents. She seemed about to enter it when she collapsed, cast herself on the sand and lay, her face hidden on her arm.
“Hell!” cried Hank.
He shut the glass, thrust it into its case and started off down the rocks, George following.
“Where are you going to?” cried George.
“Bust up that hive,” cried Hank. “That’s white slave, clean white slave. Come along to the ship and fetch Candon and the guns. This is better than Vanderdecken.”
Tumbling, slipping, clawing at bushes, whooping like a red Indian, he led the way, George labouring behind, till they reached the beach where the boat of the Wear Jack lay, the two Chinks close by it on the sand, smoking and playing fan-tan. The boat was shoved off.