9
THERE WAS A CLINK-CLINK of china by his head, and, more distantly, a hubbub of voices, wheels, and donkeys' braying. His eyes opened onto the brilliant, harsh light.
'Tea, master,' the steward said, placing a thick white cup and saucer on the locker beside the bed.
Denton's stomach churned at the thought of the new day and the new things he would have to do in it. He glanced covertly at the steward. He was wizened and crooked-shouldered and very thin. His wrists were like chicken bones covered with loose veiny skin beneath the frayed cuffs of his white sleeves. Why did they call them boys? he wondered, blinking at the spilt brown trickle of tea dribbling erratically down the side of the cup. The steward - the boy - had gone into the bathroom, and Denton heard water splashing into the wash-basin. He realised his nightshirt had become crumpled up above his knees. Shyly he jerked it down to a decent length.
'Ho' water,' the boy said, clearing his throat noisily. He carried the toilet bucket out and shut the door.
Denton looked at his watch, still swinging gently on its chain. Quarter past six. He watched the long sweeping second hand ticking round. So he had wound it last night after all. His skin was still moist with sweat, his nightshirt felt damp with it. The sheets smelt faintly moist. He scratched a mosquito bite on his cheek, remembering the whining by his ear before he fell asleep. Lifting the gauze of the net aside - and that too felt damp, it must have got soggy and mouldy from the watery air - he sipped the strong, sweet tea. Had that noisy din outside gone on all night? He listened to the voices, trying to separate them from the confused hubbub of the other noises. A man was calling out the same chanting three notes, repeated again and again. A gong was clashing somewhere. Women's voices chattered stridently against each other. And all the time there was that undifferentiated swell of sound that rose and fell like the sea.
He swung his legs out of the bed and walked across to the veranda. Over the flat roofs of the low houses opposite, he saw the dull sheen of the river, gleaming sullenly in the early sunlight and bristling with masts, sails and funnels, some pouring out long plumes of smoke that rose straight up to the windless sky, others still and sleeping. Sirens and hooters blew, groaning and whooping like living monsters. Sampans moved slowly between the crowded ships, so slowly that they looked motionless, as though they'd been painted on the viscous surface of the river.
Hearing a donkey bray again, he glanced down into the street. There was a train of them plodding along, long ears twitching, loaded with baskets on each side. The baskets were open, and Denton saw they were full of human night-soil. He sniffed and caught the stench, wrinkling his nose. So that was where his toilet bucket went. Yet the hawkers and rickshaw coolies, the sedan chairs and the women carrying live chickens, ducks, bundles of fruits and vegetables bound with twists of rattan, seemed not to notice or care as they bustled along beside or amongst the don-keys, often brushing against the brimming panniers. His nose wrinkled again. He looked back at the broad waters of the river.
There was the Orcades gliding steadily downstream, smoke belching from her sloping yellow stacks, strings of coloured flags fluttering from her masts. He watched forlornly as the liner slid remorselessly away behind those bat-wing sails of the junks and the scaffolds of the cranes. For a moment he could see the lower deck where he'd said goodbye to Emily; then with the red ensign breaking at its stern, it was gone. He followed the masts above a warehouse wall, a patched junk sail, and then there was nothing but the drifting, spreading cloud of smoke staining the sky. He felt like a small abandoned child, just as he'd felt on his first schoolday, when his mother had left him in the screeching, shouting, alien Church School playground and he'd watched, paralysed with despair, as she sailed away, bonnet ribbons flying on the raw autumn wind.
'Come on, this won't do,' he muttered sternly to himself, and turned to go in. But then there was a loud report somewhere in the street, followed by several others, like the rapid rifle fire he'd often heard from the smallarms factory in Enfield. He looked back startled, images of massacre and revolution tumbling panicky through his mind. But the street life went on undisturbed although the loud reports still banged away spasmodically. No heads turned, there were no police or soldiers, no rampant bloodthirsty mobs. Then he saw that the bangs came from a giant red paper firecracker hanging down from the first floor of a building further down the street. The firecracker was slowly smouldering upwards in a cloud of bluish smoke, intermittently flashing and banging as the little parcels of gunpowder concealed in it exploded. One or two passers-by glanced at the dangling red snake and some children had gathered round it, gaping and clapping their hands over their ears, but nobody else seemed to notice. Even the donkeys, now disappearing, only flattened their ears and shook their heads.
A white fluttering movement on the next veranda caught the corner of Denton's eye. Knowing it must be Mason's, he glanced round, forcing a false, uncertain smile of greeting. But through the iron lattice work that separated the two verandas he saw, not Mason, but a young Chinese girl. She was leaning over the parapet to watch the firecracker, wearing nothing but Mason's tunic. Her long black hair hung down over the white of the tunic, which reached as far as her bare knees. As she leant further over, the tunic moved up, and he saw the shadowy dimples at the back of each knee, the pale curve of her thighs.
His first thought was that he mustn't allow a lady to see him in his nightshirt, but instead of turning away, he stared stupefied at the girl's pale legs and tiny bare feet. Then she turned, and saw him. Mason's tunic was hanging open and Denton glimpsed a small, swelling breast, the round rosy circle of a nipple, a long streak of pale skin and a shadowy darkness between her legs before she casually shrugged the tunic closer round her. She eyed him coolly, her eyes seeming puffy with sleep, and walked back into Mason's bedroom, while Denton gazed stiffly past her.
'Nothing, Tibbee,' he heard her chirp in a high toneless voice. 'Onlee fi' cracka.'
Denton went in and sat on the bed to finish his tea, his mind lurching from upright condemnation of what he'd just seen to turbulent images that went beyond it, images which he resolutely dismissed but which insidiously crept back again and again. He put the cup down and went into the bathroom, the vision of the girl's breast persisting wickedly in his mind.
There was a new bucket in the toilet box. He planted his legs before it sternly and imagined himself contemptuously upbraiding Mason. His own licentious thoughts slowly wilted too as he visualised Mason, shame-faced and crest-fallen, turning and slinking away from him in the mess.
When he was dressed and ready to go down for breakfast, his old diffident shyness seized him. He would have to brave a roomful of strangers, who would all look up at him with hard, judging eyes, he would have to choose a table under their watchfulness, perhaps introduce himself, order his breakfast from the steward without swallowing his words. He waited for several minutes with his hand on the door, rehearsing how he would greet strangers, call a steward (Boy! Boy!), order from the menu.... On the Orcades it had all been so much easier, a set meal without any choice at a set table. At last he forced himself to go. Even so, a creak on the boards outside held him back and he hung there listening till he was sure he wouldn't run into Mason or the Chinese girl outside, his brave imaginings of facing Mason down abjectly abandoned. Then he turned the handle gingerly and glanced cautiously through the crack before he slipped out and went down the stairs.
But breakfast went off all right. Johnson waved to him to join him at a table by the wall, and left after a few smiling bland remarks, so that Denton was able to order from the boy without being observed. He hastily chose a boiled egg - the first word he read on the menu - and signed his name to the chit afterwards without any mistake. Best of all, Mason didn't appear.
He decided he could walk to the tailor (he'd memorised the way when Mason took him the day before) which would save him the embarrassment and perhaps humiliation of trying to hire a rickshaw by himself.
When he set off, pretending to ignore the beggars and rickshaw coolies who besieged him as he walked down the broad stone steps, he saw a rickshaw being pulled away, a girl leaning back under the canopy. She glanced round at him with heavy-lidded eyes, very like those of the girl he'd seen on Mason's veranda. But he looked away at once before he could be certain, although he felt sure she continued to stare at him with a frank, inquisitive gaze.
10
ON THURSDAY AT TEN he knocked on Mr Brown's solid door and was summoned in. Mr Brown was sitting, as before, writing at his desk, and the punkah creaked regularly, as before, over his lowered head.
'Let us see how much you have learnt.' He closed his eyes and rested his bulging forehead between his hands, meditating for several long seconds, as if he were drawing the questions up from some solemn pool deep in his brain.
Denton licked his lips and waited.
At last Mr Brown opened his eyes, raising his massive head just enough to rest his chin on the steepled tips of his fingers. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, stirring the limp grey fringes of his moustache, and cleared his throat portentously. 'Mr Denton, what tax is chargeable on goods exported via Chinese ports?'
'Five per cent ad valorem, sir.'
'And ad valorem means?'
'According to value.'
Mr Brown's faint grey eyebrows rose, giving him an implausibly perplexed expression. 'But who decides the value?'
'The assessor, sir.'
'Correct, Mr Denton, the assessor decides.' His brows slowly lowered, and his eyes closed for a second. 'Now tell me, what do you understand by the term likin ?'
'Er, it's a tax on anything that crosses the boundaries of a province.'
'Anything, Mr Denton? A donkey wandering in search of grass, for instance?'
'Oh.' Denton stirred on his chair. 'On specified goods only, sir.'
'Exactly,' Mr Brown nodded deliberately, then rested his chin on his fingertips again. 'On specified goods only, Mr Denton. We must be precise.'
'Yes sir.'
'That is why we are here - to be precise. The Imperial Chinese government has had a Customs Service for hundred of years, Mr Denton, but it was not precise. It is our duty to inject precision into a loose and apathetic organization that has not known it before and generally does not welcome it now.'
'Yes sir.'
'Precision, Mr Denton.' Again his brows rose in mock perplexity. 'But who decides the amount of likin in cases where the value of those specified goods is contested between the Customs officer and the owner?'
'The assessor, sir?'
'Precisely, Mr Denton.' His eyes gleamed with pride, as if he had led a dull pupil to appreciate at last a sparkling intellectual truth. 'There you have it, the assessor again!' He surveyed Denton satisfiedly for a moment and then narrowed his eyes gravely. 'Now we come to the question of opium, a question which, together with the question of salt, may be regarded as providing the raison d'être of the Imperial Chinese Maritime Customs Service.' He paused significantly and moistened his lips. 'Under what circumstances is it now legal to import opium into China?'
'When it is handled by a Chinese importer, sir.'
'And?'
Denton looked at him, nonplussed.
'Is it legal to import opium into China through a Chinese importer without payment of tax and, if need be, likin?'
'Oh I see, sir. No sir.'
'No it is not.' Mr Brown smiled. He unsteepled his hands to toy with his watch chain, glancing up at the clock on the wall. 'And in what ways are tax and likin payable?'
'Well, sir, it can be paid on entry into the country, in which case it is specially packed and stamped with the Customs seal....'
'With the Imperial Chinese Maritime Customs seal,' Mr Brown chided him.
'The Imperial Chinese Maritime Customs seal, sir,' Denton nodded.
Mr Brown was easing a gold watch out of his pocket. 'Precision, Mr Denton,' he murmured. 'Precision, even about titles.'
'Yes sir.'
He opened the case and frowned down at the dial, tilting his head to one side. 'And the other method?'
'To put it in bond, sir.'
Mr Brown glanced from his watch to the clock on the wall, then closed the case and slid the watch back into his pocket, nodding gravely. 'What is the regulation governing the importation of opium and when was it made effective?'
'Er, I think nineteen hundred and two, sir. I can't remember the number.'
'Notification number two hundred and sixty one.' Mr Brown smiled again, self-gratulatingly. 'And it became effective in nineteen hundred and three - this very year of grace.'
'I see, sir.'
'Is there any other method of paying tax and likin on opium imported into the Chinese empire?'
'Er, no sir. Opium from abroad is illegal to be imported,' he stumbled and went on, 'unless tax and likin have been paid like that.'
'It is illegal to import opium otherwise, Mr Denton. Not Opium from abroad is illegal to be imported. '
'Yes sir.'
'Precision in grammar as well as in other things. Always express yourself precisely.'
'Yes sir.'
'And finally,' Mr Brown stirred in his seat, 'to whom must all reports of searches, inspections and confiscations be made in the first instance?'
'To the assessor, sir?'
'There you have it again Mr Denton! The assessor once more! Always the assessor. Remember that, remember it well.' His lids drooped slowly down in satisfaction. 'Very well, Mr Denton, that will do for now. I shall arrange for you to accompany Mr Mason on his rounds in Upper Section and Mr Johnson later, down at the Woosung forts.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'And have you found a suitable Chinese teacher yet?'
'I'm going to start next week, sir.'
'I recommend you to apply yourself to it.' He glanced sharply up at the punkah, which seemed to be slowing, and struck the bell on his desk three smart blows, still gazing upwards.
The blade began to swing more quickly again. Mr Brown breathed out through his moustache. 'Precision, you see, Mr Denton. Precision in everything. Our watchword must be precision.'
'Yes sir. Oh, and thank you for the invitation. It arrived this morning.'
'No doubt you will be sending Mrs Brown a note of acceptance in due course,' Mr Brown hinted discreetly as Denton rose to leave.
11
THEY MOVED FROM QUAY TO QUAY through the Upper Section of the wharves, Mason swaggering ahead, Denton following a pace behind, self-conscious in his new uniform. The docks, open to the sloping evening sun, stank of rotting refuse, coal dust, oil, and all the casual effluents of the city that the sluggish muddy waters of the river washed lazily along. Burly Sikh watchmen lounged by the gangways, swinging long wooden clubs, while coolies watched from the shade of the godowns, silent and lethargic, squatting on their heels and smoking cigarettes through wide brown bamboo pipes.
At each vessel the Chinese agent greeted them respectfully and handed Mason the cargo manifest, waiting alertly - often, it seemed, nervously - while Mason lounged in the saloon, assessing duty and demanding in his abrupt, domineering tones to inspect some case or other in the hold. Each agent offered them drinks, cigarettes and cigars with ingratiating politeness. Mason invariably accepted, sticking the unsmoked cigar in his tunic pocket.
'What's the matter?' he asked sarcastically after Denton had declined everything on the first two ships. 'Don't you have any vices? Not even one?'
'I don't smoke or drink really,' Denton apologised uncomfortably, afraid of exposing himself to Mason's mockery, and simultaneously ashamed of his fear. It was true, he didn't smoke or drink (he'd signed the pledge at the Band of Hope when he was seventeen), but he was also thinking of the regulation he'd studied in the third, tan, pamphlet Mr Brown had given him, in which the acceptance of gifts of any description from persons dealing directly or indirectly with the Customs Service was expressly forbidden. On the third ship, a British India Steam Navigation tramp steamer, its hull dented and rusty, Mason seemed to divine this thought of Denton's. 'Well if you don't smoke yourself, you could at least take a cigar or two for your pals,' he muttered peevishly as the agent, a slight, young Chinese in a dark blue gown, with swift, shining eyes, offered them three cigars each. 'Or is it the rules that are stopping you? You needn't worry about them, nobody gives a tinker's cuss about a few cigars, you know!' He sniffed one of the cigars he'd taken himself, but said nothing, merely raising his brows in derisive amazement, when Denton again refused the cigars offered to him.
It was on that ship that Denton first saw opium. Mason carelessly ordered the opium consignment opened and took some of the dense-packed brown stuff in his fingers to smell it. 'Here, have a sniff.' He held it out to Denton. 'Best quality Indian. Worth a packet, even after tax.'
Denton's nose wrinkled at the rich, greasy smell, which he realised then he'd already encountered in faint whiffs on the waterfront and in some of the streets he'd passed along. Mason suddenly reached forward to tuck a few shreds under the flap of Denton's pocket. 'There you are,' he laughed, one eye on the agent. 'Smuggle some ashore.'
The agent chuckled obsequiously, his dark eyes glistening, while Mason went back into the saloon to compute the tax.
When they'd finished with all the ships berthed at the quays, they boarded a waiting Customs launch flying the Imperial Chinese pennant. 'Alexander the First,' Mason ordered the coxswain, a tubby Chinese with a rolling double chin that gave him a comfortable, jolly look. 'Number four buoy.' Mason held four fingers up in front of the coxswain's nose to ram the number home. 'Number four, all right?'
They went forward as the clanking engine started, dark smoke spurting up from the single grimy funnel. The sun was just setting over the skyline, a collection of long roofs and chimneys, black and sharp-edged against the great disc that sank further with every second, like a slowly-winking angry eye.
'That's the French Concession over there,' Mason nodded.
Denton gazed at the buildings, lower, older and shabbier than the merchant palaces along the International Settlement's Bund. 'Is it interesting?' he asked.
'Depends what you're looking for,' Mason glanced enigmatically at him from under slyly lowered lids.
Denton didn't speak again until the closing eye of the sun had vanished behind the buildings in the west. The sky still smouldered, reflecting its glow upon the smooth brownish waters of the river. He glanced back at the International Settlement, growing a dusky mauve and blurred already behind them. 'I wonder where the nearest church is?' he said unguardedly, half-aloud.
'What?' Mason turned to look at him as though he though he must have misheard. 'What church?'
'Well, the Church of England.'
'God knows.' He guffawed suddenly at his unintended witticism, and then repeated it to ensure Denton appreciated it too. 'God knows. And if He doesn't, who would, eh? There are dozens of 'em. Why? Thinking of getting married?'
'I'll ... I'll need to know for Sunday,' Denton muttered as if grudgingly confessing to some embarrassing frailty.
'Will you now?' Mason glanced at him, then looked down at the water. 'Personally I'd rather do something enjoyable on Sundays,' he said at last, drily, brushing the ends of his moustache lightly upwards with the back of his knuckle. Then he took out one of the cigars he'd been given and turned away from the wind to light it, smoking in silence as they drew nearer to the Russian liner.
Denton watched a blue sack-like thing floating in the water just ahead, wallowing almost below the surface. It slowly turned, rose, and sank as though it were being gently rolled and tugged from below. Mason had seen it too, and was leaning forward on the rail.
'It looks like a body,' Denton said.
'It is a body,' Mason answered coolly. He called out to the coxswain and the launch slackened speed.
Mason was right. It was a body, floating face down, its trousers and shirt darkened by the water and glistening slightly as it broke the surface. The queue, still neatly plaited, snaked away from the head like a piece of sodden black rope.
Denton's pulse quickened and he found himself holding his breath while he gazed at the submerged face, as if he himself were under the water. The coxswain fetched a boat hook and tried to hook the corpse's shirt with it. But the hook caught in the putrid flesh beneath and a piece flaked off like sodden pastry. A dark thick liquid oozed out.
'Phew!' Mason threw his cigar away. It landed with a little hiss in the water a few feet from the body. 'Can bring on board? Bring topside?'
'No can do.' The tubby coxswain laughed almost gaily, except that at the same time his eyes were mournful. 'He go open, open.' He closed his hands then flapped them open several times to express how the body would disintegrate if they touched it.
'Let him go then,' Mason said, waving dismissively. 'Or her. Can't tell, can you?'
The coxswain gave an obedient little shove to the corpse, pushing it under. It sank slowly, rolling on its side, then slowly rose again, rolling back, so that its greenish, eyeless face gaped at them for a moment, the flesh half gone. It was like a last silent scream for help.
The coxswain walked back to the wheelhouse, trailing the boat hook in the water to clean it. The engine clanked clamorously and they steamed on.
'That's one the slops didn't find,' Mason said, his nose still wrinkled above his ginger moustache. 'They pick up the corpses by the docks every morning. That one must've floated out. Been in a few days too, by the look of it, although they do rot pretty fast in this weather. Enough to put you off your grub, isn't it?'
Denton swallowed a little sour tide of nausea that was rising up his throat. 'What d'you think happened?' he asked.
Mason shrugged. 'There are usually a hundred or so bumping along the quays every morning. The slops have a special boat with nets to catch 'em with. Like trawling for fish.'
'A hundred?'
'About that, yes. Hunger, disease, gang-fights, ordinary murders and robberies - they all end up in the river. Nice and convenient. Some of our informers end up there too.'
'Informers?'
'How d'you think we nab the smugglers then?' He laughed shortly. 'We'd never get 'em, the likes of you and me. The Chinks are too crafty for us. It takes a Chink to see through a Chink. We have to buy tips. They'd sell their best friend for fifty dollars, too. That's how we do it.'
Soon they came alongside the gleaming white hull of the Alexander the First. The gangway trembled and swayed under Mason's weight as he clambered heavily up the steps. The agent was waiting for them at the top, an older man this time, dressed in a long silk gown with full sleeves and wearing a little round hat on his head. 'Good evening, Mista' May-song,' he smiled, affably rather than deferentially, giving a ceremonious bow that seemed almost mocking as he held out the cargo manifest courteously in both hands. The little fingernail of his left hand was long and curving, like some bird's talon.
'Evening, Mr Ching.' Mason replied with a grudging surly politeness himself. 'My assistant, Mr Denton.'
The agent bowed with the same mocking ceremony. 'Good evening, Mr Den-tong, how are you do?' His voice was high and loud, with none of the deference of the other agents.
Denton nodded and smiled awkwardly. He noticed how pale the man's skin was, as though it had never been in the sun, and wondered why Mason so uncharacteristically treated him with a certain respect.
Mason was leafing through the sheets of the manifest, each covered with a strange, looped writing that looked illegible to Denton. Then he glanced up, shaking the sheets together. 'We'll sort this out while we're eating, all right?'
'Of course, Mista' May-song.' The agent bowed again, folding his hands together in his sleeves, then led the way with short gliding steps, his gown flowing behind him, to the first class saloon.
They had hardly sat down at a table by the window, when the chief steward himself appeared, ushered in by the agent.
'What will you like to drink?' Mr Ching was asking, smiling that same courteous yet faintly mocking smile as he looked down at them through his rimless glasses. The chief steward snapped his fingers for the wine list.
'Sherry to start with. What about you, Denton? I can't stand vodka, myself.'
'Oh, nothing for me thank you,' Denton said hurriedly. 'Or just a glass of ginger beer?'
'Sherry and ginger beer?' Mr Ching turned to the chief steward and spoke to him briefly in Russian, leading him gently away.
'He speaks Russian as well,' Denton remarked tentatively. 'The agent.'
'Yes. Used to live up near the Russian border.' Mason opened the menu and studied it, frowning. 'Keep on the right side of him. He knows a thing or two.'
Confused by the names on the menu, Denton let Mason order for both of them. The putrefying corpse clearly hadn't put Mason off his grub after all, Denton noticed, nor indeed himself. It was as though it hadn't really been human at all, but some strange decaying fish. Only when he recalled the sightless eyes and exposed teeth did Denton feel a nauseous qualm.
After the meal, Mason sipped a brandy and picked over the box of cigars the steward brought them, while Mr Ching smoothed the cargo manifest out on the table in front of him. 'Wouldn't get this in second class,' he nudged Denton as the attentive steward lit the long cigar he finally selected. At last he looked reluctantly down at the manifest's sheets trembling under the fan, and began turning them languidly.
'Here, time you got started,' he said abruptly after a while. 'Sort out the tax on this lot. I'll check it afterwards.' He got up, dabbing his moustache with his napkin and went with Mr Ching to the far corner of the saloon, where the agent refilled his brandy while they talked quietly, facing each other across the table like card players.
At first Denton thought he wouldn't be able to decipher the script, but as he worked at the pages he found he could make it out after all. He finished with a lift of pride that was only slightly dashed when Mason negligently checked his calculations without comment.
'All right,' he burped. 'Let's sign.'
'Shouldn't we examine one of the cases?' Denton asked doubtfully.
'Hell, I s'pose we'd better,' Mason frowned in annoyance. 'Have 'em open up a case will you, Mr Ching?' He turned back to Denton as the agent rustled away. 'Teaching me my job now, are you?' he muttered, in a tone that seemed to hover uncertainly between indignation and bantering.
A case was opened in number three hold and Mason checked the contents perfunctorily against the manifest. 'All right,' he turned away. 'Let's sign and be off.'
As they were approaching the gangway, Mason suddenly stopped, slapping his pocket. 'Forgot my report book' he said. 'You go ahead, tell them to get ready. They're probably fast asleep, the lazy devils.'
It was night now, violet and soft, the lights glistening along the shore, with little misty hazes of moisture round them. Denton looked over the side at the Customs launch. The coxswain was talking to one of the sailors, looking up expectantly at Denton. The boiler fire glowed on their faces, and the water all round the boat seemed black and still, as if it had been varnished.
'We're just coming.' Denton called down. The coxswain moved into the shadow of the wheelhouse and then the engine began its vociferous clanking.
He returned along the empty, dimly-lit companion ways to the dining saloon. Mason was holding a white envelope in his hand, talking to Mr Ching in a low, tense voice. They moved apart when they saw him. Mr Ching quickly smiled, but Denton felt he had intruded. 'They're ready,' he said apologetically to Mason. 'Did you find it?'
'What?' Mason stared at him blankly.
'Your report book.'
'Oh.' His face loosened. 'Yes, got it. It was on the, er, on the table there all the time.'
They all looked at the table, while Mason slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his tunic.
'Goodbye, Mista' Den-tong,' Mr Ching said in his high cheerful voice. 'Goodbye, Mista' May-song.'
Mason buttoned his tunic as he went along. He walked most of the way without talking, but then began speaking with a sudden heartiness. 'Extraordinary thing,' he chuckled. 'The old chief steward on this tub sent me a letter.' He patted his pocket as if he was willing to produce the evidence if Denton doubted him. 'We used to go round a bit when he came ashore. Nice of him to remember me, eh?'
Once on board the launch, Mason leant silently against the rail, one foot on the neatly coiled rope, unusually self-involved. Denton wondered why he didn't read his letter. There was light enough from the lamp on the mast.
'He's got a very fair skin for a Chinese, Mr Ching?' he asked across the uneasy silence.