“Swatow! I thought the Ah-Foo was bound for Shanghai direct?”
“Never in your life, Mr. Raxworthy. This is an intermediate boat, and well I know it! Swatow, Amoy, Foochow, Wen Chow, Hangchow, Shanghai; like a porter yelling out the names of stations on the old North-Eastern. By smoke! What wouldn’t I give to be in Liverpool Street station now instead of in this old hooker.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated the midshipman aghast. “How long does it take her to make Shanghai?”
“Depends,” replied the third officer guardedly. “Depends on what cargo’s offering. Say a week, and you’ll not be far wrong. But she’s a fairly comfortable ship and you won’t be crowded. You’re the only first-class passenger.”
That was little consolation. Here he was, under orders to report on board Sandgrub with the least possible delay, with the prospect of kicking his heels for a week, perhaps ten days. Once these “intermediates” go into port there’s no knowing when they will leave.
Then, reflecting, he remembered that it was through no fault of his that he had been booked for a passage in the Ah-Foo. Probably the commander would think so and not forget to mention it when, at some future date, he rejoined his ship. Meanwhile he must make the best of things and trust to luck that Sandgrub hadn’t gone up the Yang-tse before he arrived at Shanghai.
He hoped she wouldn’t. He was looking forward to the experience tremendously. It was a most unusual procedure to send a midshipman for service in a river gunboat. What was the idea? He couldn’t think. Neither the Owner nor the Bloke had hinted about the nature of his duties. It might be that the Sandgrub was on special service—a chance of smelling powder, perhaps—and if that were so he would be an object of envy to his messmates who remained in the light cruiser.
Raxworthy remained on the boat-deck until the island of Hong Kong dipped behind the horizon and the rugged China coast showed up through the heat haze broad on the port beam.
About two miles off a large junk was on a course diagonal to the shore. Although she was at present dead ahead, she would draw clear long before the Ah-Foo cut her track.
The midshipman gave the junk a casual glance. Since he arrived on the China Station he had seen too many craft of this type to show any interest in her.