rules. We have had
a great deal of trouble to enforce them, and any relaxation would have
a very bad effect on the Chinamen: they wouldn't understand it."

"Don't you worry about that, sir," said Mr. Martin. "Leave it to me.
There'll be a fine to pay to-morrow," he added, with a chuckle; "and
you can make it pretty stiff as a warning to the Chinese; it'll be
paid on the nail, I assure you."

"Very well, Mr. Martin. I shall know nothing about it officially until
you come before me to-morrow, and I'll read you a severe lecture in
addition to fining you. You can come to me for a subscription
afterwards. Good-bye, Mr. Smith: good luck. I sincerely hope you'll
find your friends safe and sound. Give my kind regards to Lieutenant
Underhill."

Smith left the Residency with Mr. Martin, who led him to the Chinese
quarter of the town, a dark assemblage of small huts, pig-sties, and
poultry runs.

"I don't know where Mackinnon's boy lives," said Mr. Martin. "We shall
have to hunt him up."

All the huts were apparently in darkness, and Smith, as he walked
rapidly beside his guide, thought that he preferred the smell of
petrol smoke to the mingled odours that assailed his nose. At length
they discovered a light amid the gloom, and hastening towards it,
discovered that it proceeded from an oil-lamp within one of the huts,
the door of which was open. Here they saw a group of Chinamen
squatting on the floor, engaged in playing a game with small figures
carved in bone.

"Hi, boys," called Mr. Martin; "can tell where Ching-Fu keeps?"

"My tellee massa," cried one of the younger men, rising. "My go long
that side, show wai-lo."

"Come on, then: chop-chop."

"Allo lightee, massa: my savvy."

He led them through what appeared to Smith an intricate maze of narrow
alleys, and presently pushed open the door of a hut, and called the
name of Ching-Fu, entering without ceremony. The Englishmen heard
voices raised as in altercation, and after some minutes the guide
reappeared, followed by a burly compatriot, rubbing his eyes.

"He catchee sleep, say what for come fetchee this time."

"Now, Ching-Fu," said Mr. Martin, "this gentleman wants seventy
gallons of petrol, at once. Mr. Mackinnon got a cable about it
yesterday. Come and get the cans, and have them taken up to my house
at once."

"No can do, massa," replied the man in a shrill tone of voice, that
seemed singularly unbefitting to his massive frame. "Topside man
catchee my