"All slick man go aft," says he. "Lady flix um."
"Is she not coming forward?" asked Newman.
"No can do. Slick man lay aft."
"What have you there?" I demanded, for he bore a glass filled with liquid.
"Dosey. Mlissa Mate, him say give slick man inside," and he pointed into the foc'sle.
Newman ripped out an oath. "Give it here. A bonesetter, not a dose of physic is needed in there."
He reached out his hand, and Wong obediently surrendered the glass. He surrendered something else. I was standing by Newman's side, and, saw the piece of paper that passed into his hand with the tumbler.
Newman's face remained as impassive as the Chinaman's own. He sniffed of the draught, made a wry face and tossed it, glass and all, over the side into the sea. Then he turned on his heel and went into the foc'sle. Wong went aft, followed by most of the watch.
I went after Newman. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, musing, and the note was open upon his knee. He handed it to me to read.
It was just a strip of wrapping paper, hastily scribbled over in pencil. But the handwriting was dainty and feminine. It was from the lady, plainly enough, even though no name was signed.