"Cappen! Cappen! This b'long Wang. No makee speakee" A firm hand was laid over his mouth.
In the pitchy darkness of the close room, Captain Sheldon could see absolutely nothing. Listening intently, he heard stealthy movements outside the door. On deck there was utter silence. He became aware instinctively that the junk was no longer moving, that the wind had gone.
He lay perfectly still. The suddenness of the occasion had brought an unaccountable conflict of impulses and emotions. He felt that an alarming crisis was in the air. Along with this feeling came another, strange enough at such a time—a sense of confidence in the old steward. He had immediately recognized the voice in his ear. Why hadn't he jumped out of bed? Why wasn't he lying there in momentary expectation of a knife in the ribs—why didn't he throw himself aside to avoid it? He could not understand his own immobility; yet he remained quiet. Something in the old Chinaman's whisper held him in its command. Pride had succumbed to intrinsic authority.
The rapid whisper began again, panting and insistent.
"Cappen, you come now. Mus' come quick. I savvy how can do. Maybe got time. S'pose stay here, finishee chop-chop" The hand was removed from his mouth, as if conscious that discretion had sufficiently been imposed.
"What has happened, Wang?" whispered the agitated captain.
"Makee killee, all samee I know"
"Where's the mate? Where's the crew?"
"All go, Cappen" Again the hand came over his mouth "You come quick. Bym'by, no can do"
Captain Sheldon flung the steward's arm aside and sat up wildly. "Good God, let me go, Wang! I must go out...."