“H’m!” murmured Sin Sin Wa. “Smyrna stuff.” From a pocket of his pea-jacket he drew a long bodkin, and taking up one of the largest balls he thrust the bodkin in and then withdrew it, the steel stained a coffee color. Sin Sin Wa smelled and tasted the substance adhering to the bodkin, weighed the ball reflectively in his yellow palm, and then set it aside. He took up a second, whereupon: “’Alf a mo’, guvnor!” cried the seaman furiously. “D’you think I’m going to wait ’ere while you prods about in all the blasted lot? It’s damn near high tide—I shan’t get out. ’Alf time! Savvy? Shove it on the scales!” Sin Sin Wa shook his head. “Too muchee slick. Too muchee bhobbery,” he murmured. “Sin Sin Wa gotchee sabby what him catchee buy or no pidgin.” “What’s the game?” inquired George menacingly. “Don’t you know a cake o’ Smyrna when you smells it?” “No sabby lead chop till ploddem withee dipper,” explained the Chinaman, imperturbably. “Lead!” shouted the man. “There ain’t no bloody lead in ’em!” “H’m,” murmured Sin Sin Wa smilingly. “So fashion, eh? All velly proper.” He calmly inserted the bodkin in the second cake; seemed to meet with some obstruction, and laid the ball down upon the counter. From beneath his jacket he took out a clasp-knife attached to a steel chain. Undeterred by a savage roar from the purveyor, he cut the sticky mass in half, and digging his long nails into one of the halves, brought out two lead shots. He directed a glance of his beady eye upon the man. “Bloody liar,” he murmured sweetly. “Lobber.” “Who’s a robber?” shouted George, his face flushing darkly, and apparently not resenting the earlier innuendo; “Who’s a robber?” “One sarcee Smyrna feller packee stuff so fashion,” murmured Sin Sin Wa. “Thief-feller lobbee poor sailorman.” George jerked his peaked cap from his head, revealing a tangle of unkempt red hair. He scratched his skull with savage vigor. “Blimey!” he said pathetically. “’Ere’s a go! I been done brown, guv’nor.” “Lough luck,” murmured Sin Sin Wa, and resumed his examination of the cakes of opium. The man watched him now in silence, only broken by exclamations of “Blimey” and “Flaming hell” when more shot was discovered. The tests concluded: “Gotchee some more?” asked Sin Sin Wa. From the canvas wrapping George took out and tossed on the counter a square packet wrapped in grease-paper. “H’m,” murmured Sin Sin Wa, “Patna. Where you catchee?” “Off of a lascar,” growled the man. The cake of Indian opium was submitted to the same careful scrutiny as that which the balls of Turkish had already undergone, but the Patna opium proved to be unadulterated. Reaching over the counter Sin Sin Wa produced a pair of scales, and, watched keenly by George, weighed the leaf and then the cake. “Ten-six Smyrna; one ’leben Patna,” muttered Sin Sin Wa. “You catchee eighty jimmies.” “Eh?” roared George. “Eighty quid! Eighty quid! Flamin’ blind o’ Riley! D’you think I’m up the pole? Eighty quid? You’re barmy!”