room--was smashed to smithereens an'
somebody come in through it."

"Are you sure?" said Harley eagerly. "Are you sure?"

That he was intensely absorbed in the story he revealed by a piece of
bad artistry, very rare in him. He temporarily forgot his dialect. Our
marine friend, however, was too much taken up with his own story to
notice the slip, and:

"Dead sure!" he shouted.

He suddenly twisted around in his chair.

"Tell me I was dreamin', mate," he invited, "and if you ain't dreamin'
in 'arf a tick it won't be because I 'aven't put yer to sleep!"

"I ain't arguin', old son," said Harley soothingly. "Get on with your
yarn."

"Ho!" said the fireman, mollified, "so long as you ain't. Well, then,
it's all blotted out after that. Somebody come in at the winder, but 'oo
it was or wot it was I can't tell yer, not for fifty quid. When I woke
up, which is about 'arf an hour before you see me, I'm all alone--see?
There's no sign of Kwen Lung nor the gal nor old Ma Lorenzo nor anybody.
I sez to meself, wot you keep on sayin'. I sez, 'You're dreamin',
Bill.'"

"But I don't think you was," declared Harley. "Straight I don't."

"I know I wasn't!" roared the fireman, and banged the table lustily. "I
see 'er blood on the joss an' on the floor where she lay!"

"This morning?" I interjected.

"This mornin', in the light of the little oil lamp where old Ma Lorenzo
'ad roasted the pills! It's all still an' quiet an' I feel more dead
than alive. I'm goin' to give 'er a hail, see? When I sez to myself,
'Bill,' I sez, 'put out to sea; you're amongst Kaffirs, Bill.' It
occurred to me as old Kwen Lung might wonder 'ow much I knew. So I beat
it. But when I got in the open air I felt I'd never make my lodgin's
without a tonic. That's 'ow I come to meet you, mates.

"Listen--I'm away in the old Seahawk in the mornin', but I'll tell you
somethink. That yellow bastard killed his daughter last night! Beat 'er
to death. I see it plain. The sweetest, prettiest bit of ivory as Gawd
ever put breath into. If 'er body ain't in the river, it's in the 'ouse.
Drunk or sober, I never could stand the splits, but mates"--he stood
up, and grasping me by the arm, he drew me across the room where he also
seized Harley in his muscular grip--"mates," he went on earnestly, "she
was the sweetest, prettiest little gal as a man ever clapped eyes on.
One of yer walk into Limehouse Station an' put the koppers wise. I'd
sleep easier at sea if I knew old