replied quietly. "The _Teaser_ having left us, alters our position
completely. She has gone off on a false scent, I'm afraid, and we must
not lose the substance while they are hunting the shadow."

Very little more was said, and as I sat in the darkness I had plenty to
think about and picture out, as in imagination I saw our queer-looking
boat hooked on to the side of a great high-pooped junk, and Mr Brooke
leading the men up the side to the attack upon the fierce desperadoes
who would be several times our number.

"I don't know what we should do," I remember thinking to myself, "if
these people hadn't a wholesome fear of our lads."

Then I watched the shore, with its lights looking soft and mellow
against the black velvety darkness. Now and then the booming of gongs
floated off to us, and the squeaking of a curious kind of pipe; while
from the boats close in shore the twangling, twingling sound of the
native guitars was very plain--from one in particular, where there was
evidently some kind of entertainment, it being lit up with a number of
lanterns of grotesque shapes. In addition to the noise--I can't call it
music--of the stringed instruments, there came floating to us quite a
chorus of singing. Well, I suppose it was meant for singing; but our
lads evidently differed, for I heard one man say in a gruff whisper--

"See that there boat, messmate?"

"Ay," said another. "I hear it and see it too."

"Know what's going on?"

"Yes; it's a floating poulterer's shop."

"A what?"

"A floating poulterer's shop. Can't you hear 'em killing the cats?"

This interested me, and I listened intently.

"Killing the cats?" said another.

"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 whispere