“Where’s the ship?” asked Red Landyard. “Show me the Shongpong!”
The Russian led the way up the beach. Two hours stiff walking brought the castaways to a cove in which lay a rusty tramp flying the Chinese flag and swarming with coolies—like ants on a cockroach.
Mike Monkey stared at the boxes which the coolies were carrying aboard the ship.
“Tay!” he spat. “Aya, it may be tay and it may be something else. Them ain’t Chinese marks on the sides.”
“Russian!” explained Ivan. “Come with me aboard my ship. You can see the boxes are marked with Russian letters.”
Micky McMasters jabbed the engineer in the ribs as they trailed up a shaky gangplank and sprang from the Shongpong’s unpolished rail at the waist.
“Be careful!” he warned. “Don’t ask no bloomin’ questions. Wait till we cross the Sea o’ Japan!”
Mike gulped. He eyed the decrepit back-stays and standing rigging of the tramp. He ranged a fluttering glance along the dirty planks of the freighter. He shifted his tongue in his mouth as he stared at the drunken-looking funnel, which bore evidences of poorly patched shot holes.
“A rum hooker,” he told Red Landyard. “She’s had her name painted out about five times. She’s no more’n eight hundred tons, if she’s that. She’s a broodin’ menace ov some kind. Ah wash my hands of this voyage.”
“You’re ’ands need washin’!” snapped Micky McMasters. “Drop below and look over the engines. See hif there’s any coal or supplies aboard. Report to me on the bridge.”