"You did! you did! And what name did you give her?" shrieked Ping Sang.
The man thought a little and shook his head, evidently in some fear of the fat little merchant.
"He won't say, sir; says that he cannot remember; he only did what he was told; it was not his fault," said A Tsi, to whom the man had turned.
Another flow of language came from Ping Sang, before which the wretched Chinaman flinched, and eventually he gave the name Ling Lu Ming.
"I knew it! I knew it!" roared Ping Sang, rolling from side to side, and getting red in the face with indignation, which just as suddenly turned to a broad smile, and with a twinkle of his eyes he told Captain Helston that he had bought the Fi Ting for £150,000, lost her six months later, and then bought the Ping Lu Ming cheaply for £120,000 in Amoy.
"I always suspected she was the same," he added cheerfully.
It was one of the amusing characteristics of this little man that his wrath always vanished as quickly as it grew, and was followed by envy of the "cuteness" which had got the better of him, and he bore not the least malice, only looking forward to a future opportunity of "squaring the account".
The prisoner, seeing Ping Sang's benign, amused expression, took courage and ventured a smile too—a cunning, treacherous enough smile; but it quickly died away, and the colour fled from his yellow skin, for Ping Sang, catching sight of it, jumped from his chair, and shaking a fat little finger at him, let flow a torrent of words which left him speechless with anger, only to recover his usual urbanity a moment later when Captain Helston asked him what he had said.
"Nothing, nothing, Captain; only assured him that I would have his liver torn out and make him eat it if he did not stop grinning."
He meant it, too, for, if half the stories which were told of Ping Sang were to be credited, although he was as gentle as possible under the British flag, yet woe to anyone who crossed his path when not under that protection.