“I was about to call you, sir,” he exclaimed, his red face working with emotion. “You will think I’ve made a hash of my first night on duty, but this insane business happened like a shot out of a gun, sir. Not ten minutes ago the Chinamen, every last one of ’em, came boiling on deck and went over the side to the wharf like so many rats. And they never did stop running. They were scared; it was a panic; but they didn’t stop to jabber. They just flew, and most of ’em left their dunnage behind.” “The divil you say,” muttered O’Shea, and he rubbed his head in slightly bewildered fashion. “That must have been just before I stepped on deck, Mr. Parkinson. And ye have no idea at all what it was about?” “Not the slightest, sir. I hope you don’t blame me. I’d have sailed into the thick of them with my fists, but it was like chasing so many greased pigs. They vanished before you could more than wink.” “What about the fires?” snapped the captain. “Have you been below?” “Yes, sir. The first thing I did was to find Mr. Kittridge. He is in the engine-room, and he told me to send down half a dozen of our white men to keep up steam.” “Good enough! Now sing out for a volunteer cook, and I will investigate this comical performance. Did anybody get aboard to talk to these Chinamen?” “Not a soul, sir. I’m sure of it. I had a reliable man at the gangway, and another on the wharf.” “I believe you. While I look around a bit, get the ship ready to go to sea, Mr. Parkinson. ’Tis not in me mind to be hung up in port very long.” A sailing junk was attempting to reach with the morning breeze across the wide stretch of river. Hauling close to the wharf at which the _Whang Ho_ was moored, the junk attempted to come about, but missed stays in lubberly fashion and hung in the wind as she slowly drifted past the steamer’s stern. The Chinese who clung to the long tiller, and the others who stood upon the poop or hauled on the cordage, were gazing with signs of excitement at the _Whang Ho_. Several of them gesticulated, and their fingers were aimed at the rounded, overhanging stern of Captain O’Shea’s vessel. He caught sight of those antics and walked aft. There was no good reason why the crew of the passing junk should make such a fuss over this commonplace river steamer. Their singular interest in her might be worth trying to fathom. Without delaying to seek the gangway, he threw his leg around a tautened hawser and slid down to the wharf. Running out to the end of it, he commanded a clear view of the stern of the _Whang Ho_. Upon the white woodwork, just above the counter, was painted in broad strokes of bright vermilion the sprawling Chinese character which had been gashed in the back of the sailor named Jim Eldridge.