He suddenly twisted around in his chair.
"Tell me I was dreamin', mate," he invited, "and if you ain't
dreamin' in 'arf a tick it won't be because I 'aven't put yer to
sleep!"
"I ain't arguin', old son," said Harley soothingly. "Get on with
your yarn."
"Ho!" said the fireman, mollified, "so long as you ain't. Well,
then, it's all blotted out after that. Somebody come in at the
winder, but 'oo it was or wot it was I can't tell yer, not for
fifty quid. When I woke up, which is about 'arf an hour before
you see me, I'm all alone--see? There's no sign of Kwen Lung nor
the gal nor old Ma Lorenzo nor anybody. I sez to meself, wot you
keep on sayin'. I sez, 'You're dreamin', Bill.'"
"But I don't think you was," declared Harley. "Straight I
don't."
"I know I wasn't!" roared the fireman, and banged the table
lustily. "I see 'er blood on the joss an' on the floor where she
lay!"
"This morning?" I interjected.
"This mornin', in the light of the little oil lamp where old Ma
Lorenzo 'ad roasted the pills! It's all still an' quiet an' I
feel more dead than alive. I'm goin' to give 'er a hail, see?
When I sez to myself, 'Bill,' I sez, 'put out to sea; you're
amongst Kaffirs, Bill.' It occurred to me as old Kwen Lung might
wonder 'ow much I knew.
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