The Chinese crowded about Phil in evident delight, while a number of jailers stood outside the half-closed door peering inside, smiles on their ignorant faces. “They seem to enjoy my music,” Phil said in a perfectly rational voice; “but thank goodness, Langdon is still alive!” “Maybe it was from one of the sailors,” Sydney suggested. Phil continued his whistling for many minutes until his listeners had become thoroughly accustomed, then he put forth his strategy. “Langdon knows our signal code,” he said quietly, “and I’m going to try to whistle him a message, if we can only get these fellows quiet. At least we’ll find out who it is that is confined near us.” Then by single and double whistles, covered up ingeniously with snatches of tunes, he spelled out: “Who are you?” The lads waited breathlessly for several minutes, which seemed to them as many hours. Then the answer came distinctly: “Langdon. If the interpreter comes to you show him the ring. It may be your last chance.” Phil acknowledged this, and then to allay the suspicions of the jailers, he whistled several lively tunes. The long day dragged slowly by. In their cramped surroundings they leaned back against the wall and dozed off, only to be awakened by the pains in their tightly-bound limbs. The irons galled terribly. At last the jailer brought them their evening meal, a bowl of rice apiece, and before leaving them for the night, examined their shackles. While examining Sydney’s swollen wrists he “hi-yaw’d” loudly, calling the midshipmen’s attention to where the tender skin had been chafed through, the red flesh showing clearly. “Of course; what does he expect?” Sydney exclaimed angrily. “These irons are not lined with velvet!” The jailer took Phil by the shoulder and led him to a corner of the cell, where a Chinaman was lying, his pale face showing that the poor fellow’s death was but a matter of hours. Stooping down, the jailer lifted one of the sick man’s arms. The sight that met the lad’s gaze was heartrending. The wrist where his iron had been was a festering sore. The diseased flesh had slowly spread until his forearm to the elbow was infected and the man was dying of blood poison. Phil at once understood the terrible danger to his friend. He had heard of the maggot which is said to infest all Chinese prisons. The earth beneath his feet at a depth of a few inches was swarming with these deadly parasites, and their instinct leads them directly to a fresh wound. Once this insect enters the flesh of a victim, his death by a fearful, agonizing and lingering illness is assured. Pointing to Sydney’s irons Phil demanded by signs that they be immediately removed, but the jailer shook his head in dissent, his expressive face portraying a fear for himself if he did, while he struck his own neck with his hand as if to say, “That’s what would happen to me if I took his irons off.”