“I'd had one or two, mate,” he confided huskily (the confession was unnecessary). “It was them two in the Blue Anchor as did it; if I 'adn't 'ad them last two, I could 'ave broke up them Chinks with one 'and tied behind me.”
“That's all right,” I said hastily, “but what are we going to do about this Chink here?” I added, endeavouring at the same time to extricate my hand from the vise-like grip in which he persistently held it. “He hit the tiles pretty heavy when he went down.”
As if to settle my doubts, the recumbent figure suddenly arose and without a word fled into the darkness and was gone like a phantom. My new friend made no attempt to follow, but:
“You can't kill a bloody Chink,” he confided, still clutching my hand; “it ain't 'umanly possible. It's easier to kill a cat. Come along o' me and 'ave one; then I'll tell you somethink. I'll put you on somethink, I will.”
With surprising steadiness of gait, considering the liquid cargo he had aboard, the man, releasing my hand and now seizing me firmly by the arm, confidently led me by divers narrow ways, which I knew, to a little beerhouse frequented by persons of his class.
My own attire was such as to excite no suspicion in these surroundings, and although I considered that my acquaintance had imbibed more than enough for one night, I let him have his own way in order that I might learn the story which he seemed disposed to confide in me. Settled in the corner of the beerhouse—which chanced to be nearly empty—with portentous pewters before us, the conversation was opened by my new friend:
“I've been paid off from the Jupiter—Samuelson's Planet Line,” he explained. “What I am is a fireman.”
“She was from Singapore to London?” I asked.
“She was,” he replied, “and it was at Suez it 'appened—at Suez.”
I did not interrupt him.