The boatman did not seem to see them, but others turned to look. The fliers wore street clothing and were taken for tourists who would have money to spend.
“I will go on. You will speak to the boatman. Say you wish to take a boat ride.” Tom Koo moved away after giving these instructions in a low voice.
Stan was closest to the burly Chinese. “We want to see things. Have you a boat for hire?”
The boatman turned and his black eyes fixed upon the three fliers. His round, fat stomach bulged above the sash he had knotted around it. His head was shaven and smooth and his face was wrinkled into a mass of genial furrows. He was almost an exact copy of the little statues of the god of happiness they had seen displayed in the shop windows. He bowed stiffly and placed a huge straw hat on his head.
“You payee—big?” he asked.
“Sure,” Allison said. “American silver dollars.”
The fat man looked around, then headed toward a junk moored at the wharf. The boat was high-pooped, square-sterned, made of carved wood, and staring popeyes were painted on the bows. On its deck was mounted a gun of a model which had been in use a hundred years before. Stepping on board, the three fliers found deck chairs under a canvass awning.
Seating themselves, they watched the Chinese boatman maneuver his craft into the bay by using a long pole. The junk slowly proceeded away from the wharf, clearing the hundreds of odd-looking craft moored there.
A breeze fanned lazily over them and the boatman hoisted a huge sail. The junk lumbered slowly out across the oily waters. Stan noticed that the man kept watching the shore. He wondered what the fat boatman was looking for. Junks and other craft were coming in or putting out, and a motorboat darted out from among the moored vessels. The boatman grunted and shrugged his shoulders as he gave his attention to his sail.
After that nothing happened in the bay, so Stan gave his attention to the shore line falling away astern and to wondering if the American instructor would get out to the island.