"
He paused and looked about him defiantly.
"I dunno 'ow long I slept," he continued, "but some time in the
night I kind of 'alf woke up."
At that he twisted violently in his chair and glared across at
Harley:
"You been a pal to me," he said; "but tell me I was dreamin'
again and I'll smash yer bloody face!"
He glared for a while, then addressing his narrative more
particularly to me, he resumed:
"It was a scream wot woke me--a woman's scream. I didn't sit up;
I couldn't. I never felt like it before. It was the same as
bein' buried alive, I should think. I could see an' I could
'ear, but I couldn't move one muscle in my body. Foller me? An'
wot did I see, mates, an' wot did I 'ear? I'm goin' to tell yer.
I see old Kwen Lung's daughter------"
"I didn't know 'e 'ad one," murmured Harley.
"Then you don't know much!" shouted the fireman. "I knew years
ago, but 'e kept 'er stowed away somewhere up above, an' last
night was the first time I ever see 'er. It was 'er shriek wot
'ad reached me, reached me through the smoke. I don't take much
stock in Chink gals in general, but this one's mother was no
Chink, I'll swear. She was just as pretty as a bloomin' ivory
doll, an' as little an' as white, and that old swine Kwen Lung
'ad tore the dress off of 'er shoulders with a bloody great
whip!"
Harley was leaning forward in his seat now, intent upon the man's
story, and although I could not get rid of the idea that our
friend was relating the events of a particularly unpleasant opium
dream, nevertheless I was fascinated by the strange story and by
the strange manner of its telling.
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