“No. Twelve shillings. Nice gel.”
“Where’s she come from? How long you had her?”
Now the Croucher pricked up his ears and butted in. He had an idea. Here was something that might amuse him for a bit, and take off that sickish feeling. A nice girl.... Good fun. Yes, rather. He had wanted something fresh, some kind of excitement to stir things up a bit. He felt better already.
“’Ere, Chinky,” he called. “Leave that blasted drunk and come over here. Got somethink for yeh.”
The blasted drunk got up, by a grip on the Chink’s coat tail, and mentioned that he’d show kids whether they could insult a perfly respectable sailor by.... He then saw that the kid was the Croucher, and his mate pulled him back, and he slid off the seat and was no more heard of.
“Look here, Chinky,” murmured Croucher, “I’ll ... what you going to have? Right-o. Two brandies, quick.... Is this all right, this gel?”
“Sh! Les. Always all light with Wing Foo, eh?”
“Well, listen. I’m on to that. See?”
Wing Foo slid aside, and conferred with his fat yellow friend.
“All light,” he agreed, returning to the Croucher. “You come ’long now, and see her. You have my room, les.”