“I’m going along,” he announced.
Naturally, we scowled. But on what ground could we protest? One does not choose his fellow-passengers on an ocean voyage. Moreover, I owed the erstwhile resident of Sing Sing some consideration. For a week before, as we were leaving the favorite shop in Pettah, after a midnight lunch, a Singhalese, mad with hasheesh smoking, had sought a quarrel with us. Knowing the weakness of a native fist, I made no attempt to ward off a threatened blow. Before it fell, Haywood suddenly flung the screaming fellow into the gutter, and only then did I note that the hand I had thought empty clutched a long, thin knife.
We held our peace, therefore, resolving to shake off our unwelcome companion at the first opportunity, and, marching down to the quarantine station, tumbled with a multitude of Indian coolies into a barge that soon set us on board the S. S. Kasara.
“You see,” said Haywood, two hours later, pointing away to Ceylon hovering on the evening horizon, “if I’d hung round that joint another week, I’d been pinched sure. I got to get out of British territory, and with no show to ship out of Colombo, the only chance was to make a break through India. If I’d come alone, I’d ’ave been spotted. But with three of us I won’t be noticed half as quick.”
Suddenly a cabin door within reach of our hands opened, and into our midst stepped Bobby, in full uniform.
“What the devil!” I gasped, “Thought your beat was between the clock tower and the Gardens?”
Over Haywood’s face had spread the hue of a shallow sea, and his lower jaw hung loose on its hinges.
“Aha! Bobs,” grinned Marten, “doin’ a skip act, eh? Well, I’m mum.”
“Skip bloody ’ell,” snorted Bobby, “I’m h’off to Madras to snake back a forger they’ve rounded up there.”
“Sure that’s all?” demanded my partner.