“Lead!” shouted the man. “There ain’t no bloody lead in ’em!”
“H’m,” murmured Sin Sin Wa smilingly. “So fashion, eh? All velly proper.”
He calmly inserted the bodkin in the second cake; seemed to meet with some obstruction, and laid the ball down upon the counter. From beneath his jacket he took out a clasp-knife attached to a steel chain. Undeterred by a savage roar from the purveyor, he cut the sticky mass in half, and digging his long nails into one of the halves, brought out two lead shots. He directed a glance of his beady eye upon the man.
“Bloody liar,” he murmured sweetly. “Lobber.”
“Who’s a robber?” shouted George, his face flushing darkly, and apparently not resenting the earlier innuendo; “Who’s a robber?”
“One sarcee Smyrna feller packee stuff so fashion,” murmured Sin Sin Wa. “Thief-feller lobbee poor sailorman.”
George jerked his peaked cap from his head, revealing a tangle of unkempt red hair. He scratched his skull with savage vigor.
“Blimey!” he said pathetically. “’Ere’s a go! I been done brown, guv’nor.”
“Lough luck,” murmured Sin Sin Wa, and resumed his examination of the cakes of opium.
The man watched him now in silence, only broken by exclamations of “Blimey” and “Flaming hell” when more shot was discovered. The tests concluded: