“That's wot I said--blood! When I woke up this mornin' there was blood all on that grinnin' joss--the blood wot 'ad dripped from 'er shoulders when she fell.” “Eh!” said Harley. “Blood on whose shoulders? Wot the 'ell are you talkin' about, old son?” “Ere”--the fireman turned in his chair and grasped Harley by the arm--“listen to me, and I'll tell you somethink, I will. I'm goin' in the Seahawk in the mornin' see? But if you want to know somethink, I'll tell yer. Drunk or sober I bars the blasted p'lice, but if you like to tell 'em I'll put you on somethink worth tellin'. Sure the bottle's empty, mates?” I caught Harley's glance and divided the remainder of the whisky evenly between the three glasses. “Good 'ealth,” said the fireman, and disposed of his share at a draught. “That's bucked me up wonderful.” He lay back in his chair and from a little tobacco-box began to fill a short clay pipe. “Look 'ere, mates, I'm soberin' up, like, after the smoke, an' I can see, I can see plain, as nobody'll ever believe me. Nobody ever does, worse luck, but 'ere goes. Pass the matches.” He lighted his pipe, and looking about him in a sort of vaguely aggressive way: “Last night,” he resumed, “after I was chucked out of the Dock Gates, I made up my mind to go and smoke a pipe with old Ma Lorenzo. Round I goes to Pennyfields, and she don't seem glad to see me. There's nobody there only me. Not like the old days when you 'ad to book your seat in advance.” He laughed gruffly. “She didn't want to let me in at first, said they was watched, that if a Chink 'ad an old pipe wot 'ad b'longed to 'is grandfather it was good enough to get 'im fined fifty quid. Anyway, me bein' an old friend she spread a mat for me and filled me a pipe. I asked after old Kwen Lung, but, of course, 'e was out gamblin', as usual; so after old Ma Lorenzo 'ad made me comfortable an' gone out I 'ad the place to myself, and presently I dozed off and forgot all about bloody ship's bunkers an' nigger-drivin' Scotchmen.” He paused and looked about him defiantly. “I dunno 'ow long I slept,” he continued, “but some time in the night I kind of 'alf woke up.” At that he twisted violently in his chair and glared across at Harley: “You been a pal to me,” he said; “but tell me I was dreamin' again and I'll smash yer bloody face!” He glared for a while, then addressing his narrative more particularly to me, he resumed: “It was a scream wot woke me--a woman's scream. I didn't sit up; I couldn't. I never felt like it before. It was the same as bein' buried alive, I should think. I could see an' I could 'ear, but I couldn't move one muscle in my body. Foller me? An' wot did I see, mates, an' wot did I 'ear? I'm goin' to tell yer. I see old Kwen Lung's daughter------” “I didn't know 'e 'ad one,” murmured Harley.