“Me only wantchee lemindee you,” said Sin Sin Wa. “No pidgin.”
“George” glared for a moment, breathing heavily; then he stooped and resumed his task, Sin Sin Wa and Sir Lucien watching him in silence. A sound of lapping water was faintly audible.
Opening the canvas wrappings, the man began to take out and place upon the counter a number of reddish balls of “leaf” opium, varying in weight from about eight ounces to a pound or more.
“H’m!” murmured Sin Sin Wa. “Smyrna stuff.”
From a pocket of his pea-jacket he drew a long bodkin, and taking up one of the largest balls he thrust the bodkin in and then withdrew it, the steel stained a coffee color. Sin Sin Wa smelled and tasted the substance adhering to the bodkin, weighed the ball reflectively in his yellow palm, and then set it aside. He took up a second, whereupon:
“’Alf a mo’, guvnor!” cried the seaman furiously. “D’you think I’m going to wait ’ere while you prods about in all the blasted lot? It’s damn near high tide—I shan’t get out. ’Alf time! Savvy? Shove it on the scales!”
Sin Sin Wa shook his head.
“Too muchee slick. Too muchee bhobbery,” he murmured. “Sin Sin Wa gotchee sabby what him catchee buy or no pidgin.”
“What’s the game?” inquired George menacingly. “Don’t you know a cake o’ Smyrna when you smells it?”
“No sabby lead chop till ploddem withee dipper,” explained the Chinaman, imperturbably.