Eventually we got him to bed—I was horrified to see how thin he had become—and I gave him another sleeping-draught, darkened his cabin, roped off the quarter-deck to prevent any trampling of feet over his head, and presently he went to sleep again, sleeping soundly till the afternoon.
He looked much less haggard when he woke, but I kept him in bed.
"How long are you going to keep me here, old chap?" he asked piteously.
"Two days more at the very least," I told him.
The destroyers had returned that afternoon without having been successful in their search.
During the next few days the police searched, without result, every junk in the harbour and every place where the Englishman could have concealed himself or Ping Sang. The second Amoy junk was found to contain no suspicious cargo, but, for all that, it was carefully watched, to give early warning lest she should attempt any treachery, because Cummins was still doubtful about her, and did not relax any precautions during those long nights.
Christmas-day went by, and Helston was able to walk round the gaudily decorated mess-decks, headed by our amateur band playing those atrocious tunes, "The Roast Beef of Old England" and "For he's a jolly good fellow", and everyone gorged as usual at lunch and slept like boa constrictors afterwards in their cabins.
I suppose I am too old for sea life, because Christmas so-called festivities on board ship bore me to distraction. At night the midshipmen had what they called a sing-song in the gun-room, to which the Strong Arm's gun-room had been invited. They made the most disgusting noise—it makes me angry to think of it even now—and had the confounded impudence to ask me down, as they all wanted to drink my health.
The yarn had got about that but for me Helston would have been killed.
Perfect rot! but there it was; and the Sub and senior midshipman came to my cabin after I had turned in and pressed me to go down, even for five minutes.