"Ay, poor beggars. Lor' a mussy! our cats at home don't know what horrible things is done in foreign lands. They're killing cats for market to-morrer, for roast and biled." "Get out, and don't make higgerant observations, messmate. It's a funeral, and that's the way these here heathens show how sorry they are." "Silence there, my lads," said the lieutenant. "Keep a sharp look-out." "Ay, ay, sir." Just at that moment, as the lit-up boat glided along about a couple of hundred yards from us, where we sailed gently up-stream, there was a faint rustling forward, and Tom Jecks' gruff voice whispered-- "What is it, messmate?" "Ching see big junk." There was a dead silence, and we all strained our eyes to gaze up-stream. "Can't see nought, messmate," was whispered. "Yes; big junk come along." _Plash_! and a creaking, rattling sound came forth out of the darkness. "It is a big junk," said Mr Brooke, with his lips to my ear; "and she has anchored." Then from some distance up the river we saw a very dim lantern sway here and there, some hoarse commands were given, followed by the creaking and groaning of a bamboo yard being lowered, and then all was perfectly still. What strange work it seemed to be out there in the darkness of that foreign river, surrounded by curious sights and sounds, and not knowing but what the next minute we might be engaged in deadly strife with a gang of desperadoes who were perfectly indifferent to human life, and who, could they get the better of us, would feel delight in slaughtering one and all. It was impossible to help feeling a peculiar creepy sensation, and a cold shiver ran through one from time to time. So painful was this silence, that I felt glad when we had sailed up abreast of the great vessel which had dropped anchor in mid-stream, for the inaction was terrible. We sailed right by, went up some little distance, turned and came back on the other side, so near this time that we could dimly make out the heavy masts, the huge, clumsy poop and awkward bows of the vessel lying head to stream. Then we were by her, and as soon as we were some little distance below Mr Brooke spoke-- "Well, my lads, what do you say: is she one of the junks?" "No pilate junk," said Ching decisively, and I saw Mr Brooke make an angry gesture--quite a start. "What do you say, my lads?" "Well, sir, we all seem to think as the Chinee does--as it arn't one of them." "Why?" "Looks biggerer and clumsier, and deeper in the water." "Yes; tlade boat from Hopoa," said Ching softly, as if speaking to himself. "I'm not satisfied," said Mr Brooke. "Go forward, Mr Herrick; your eyes are sharp. We'll sail round her again. All of you have a good look at her rigging." "Ay, ay, sir," whispered the men; and I crept forward among them to where Ching had stationed himself, and once more we began gliding up before the wind, which was sufficiently brisk to enable us to easily master the swift tide.