B."
Where the river disembogued, the Pretty Lily, cursing and shrilling,
pattering barefoot about her craft, set a matting sail and caught the
breeze. Over the copper surface of the roadstead, the sampan drew out
handily. Ahead, a black, disreputable little steamer lay anchored, her
name--two enormous hieroglyphics painted amidships--staring a bilious
yellow in the morning sun. Under these, at last, the sampan came
bumping, unperceived or neglected.
Overhead, a pair of white shoes protruded from the rail in a blue film
of smoke. They twitched, as a dry cackle of laughter broke out.
"Kut Sing, ahoy!" shouted Heywood. "On deck! Kneebone!"
The shoes whipped inboard. Outboard popped a ruddy little face, set in
the green circle of a _topi_, and contorted with laughter.
"Listen to this, will ye!" cried the apparition, as though illustrating
a point. Leaning his white sleeves on the rail, cigar in one fist,
Tauchnitz volume in the other, he roared down over the side a passage of
prose, from which his visitors caught only the words "Ginger Dick" and
"Peter Russet," before mirth strangled him.
"God bless a man," he cried, choking, "that can make a lonesome old
beggar laugh, out here! Eh, what? How he ever thinks up--But he's took
to writing plays, they tell me.
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