“Gotchee some more?” asked Sin Sin Wa.
From the canvas wrapping George took out and tossed on the counter a square packet wrapped in grease-paper.
“H’m,” murmured Sin Sin Wa, “Patna. Where you catchee?”
“Off of a lascar,” growled the man.
The cake of Indian opium was submitted to the same careful scrutiny as that which the balls of Turkish had already undergone, but the Patna opium proved to be unadulterated. Reaching over the counter Sin Sin Wa produced a pair of scales, and, watched keenly by George, weighed the leaf and then the cake.
“Ten-six Smyrna; one ’leben Patna,” muttered Sin Sin Wa. “You catchee eighty jimmies.”
“Eh?” roared George. “Eighty quid! Eighty quid! Flamin’ blind o’ Riley! D’you think I’m up the pole? Eighty quid? You’re barmy!”
“Eighty-ten,” murmured Sin Sin Wa. “Eighty jimmies opium; ten bob lead.”
“I give more’n that for it!” cried the seaman. “An’ I damn near hit a police boat comin’ in, too!”
Sir Lucien spoke a few words rapidly in Chinese. Sin Sin Wa performed his curious oriental shrug, and taking a fat leather wallet from his hip-pocket, counted out the sum of eighty-five pounds upon the counter.