In a minute or so the Chinaman, his face as impassive as if hewn from granite, shuffled to the quarter-deck—which, like every member of the ship’s company, he saluted—and silently awaited Raxworthy to speak.
The midshipman came straight to the point.
“How did you get away when the Ah-Foo was sunk?”
“No can do,” replied the Chinaman.
“You were the steward of the Ah-Foo,” declared the midshipman challengingly.
“No can do,” reiterated the bland Celestial.
“You’ll jolly well have to,” continued Raxworthy. “How long have you been in Sandgrub? How many days have you been here?”
“Two moons.”
The answer took the wind out of Raxworthy’s sails. Two moons—equivalent to two months—meant that if the Chinaman were speaking the truth, he couldn’t possibly have been in the Ah-Foo, eight hundred miles away.
“All right; you can go,” he ordered.