Bow Bell turned the handle of the knife down, pressed the blade in against the chest to prevent hemorrhage, buttoned the frock coat over the knife, tucked the disturbed, cotton handkerchief into the man’s collar: And to the eye, Colonel Swank, drunk with opium, had fallen asleep over his narrative, his chin sunk comfortably on his chest, the body propped against the drum, and supported by Bow Bell’s shoulder.
A moment later the Chinese deck hand came out from behind the stack, and moved along the rail of the rear deck, making his inspection of the ship. And the iron nerve of Bow Bell presented itself.
“Hey, John,” he said. “Speakee Linglish?”
“Vellee good,” replied the Chinaman, continuing to move along the rail. “Speakum Plittsburg: Hullee-lup, hullee-lup, lu lalle—bastard!—Speakum Hongkong pololo plony belong-house.” His voice, went suddenly up in a high, sharp, whining cry: “Lide ’im off, Major. Oh, damn!”
Then he shuffled off unconcernedly along the rail around the rear of the ship, and disappeared toward the prow.
Night descended.
A little later Bow Bell lifted the apparently opium-drunken body of Colonel Swank to his feet, and helped him to the rail of the ship. There the two stood for a moment close together as in confidential talk, until, as the gunman turned away, the opium-drunken Colonel, by some loss of balance, fell forward over the rail into the sea.
With a great cry Bow Bell ran forward to report the accident.
It was midnight when Marion Dillard returned.