“Yes, Pedro told me,” replied Captain Gillespie, sniffing and snorting out the words. “And a good job too; for, else, I wouldn’t have known of your goings on!”
Ching Wang’s yellow face almost turned white with anger.
“Hi, blackee-brownee manee,” he yelled, springing upon Pedro like a tiger. “You takee dat number one, chop chop!”
Chapter Twelve.
A Strange Sail.
Although a coward at heart, the Portuguese steward, nerved by his intense hatred of the cook, made a bold resistance to his first onslaught, clutching at Ching Wang’s pigtail with one hand and clawing at his face with the other; while the Chinaman gripped his neck with his sinewy fingers, the two rolling on the deck in a close embrace, which was the very reverse of a loving one.
“Carajo!” gurgled out Pedro, half-strangled at the outset, but having such a tight hold of Ching Wang’s tail, of which he had taken a double turn round his wrist, that he was able to bend his antagonist’s head back, almost dislocating his neck. “Matarei te, podenga de cozenheiro!”
“Aha cutus pijjin, me catchee you, chop chop!” grunted the other through his clenched teeth; and then, not another word escaped either of them as they both sprawled and tumbled about in front of the galley, locked together, the Chinee finally coming up on top triumphantly, with Pedro, all black in the face and with his tongue protruding, below his lithe enemy.