It was all a dream. Even Shanghai was far away now—the bright bund, the Western faces. Was this really the safest way to go? Surely Mr. Huen must know, for he knew China. It was the Western point of view that made the Nangpoo steamer seem so very safe in retrospect. Far off sounded the mysterious booming of a temple-gong. All a dream!
"I'm dog-tired," said Mark, rousing. "Let's try to get some sleep, if they'll let us with their eternal jabbering. I'll take first watch, and wake you presently."
So Alan lay down, with his arm over the little box, and Mark sat upon the other side of it. He found it difficult to keep awake. The air seemed thick and suffocating; his head dropped forward and he recovered himself with a start. The low chatter of the coolies became less distinct, the rapping of the pipes below blurred into one sound. The boat-noises dwindled; night pressed in heavily, unrelieved by stars. Mark tried to push it away—the solid blackness; it choked him. Or was it the sickish fumes of the opium-lamp below? His head fell forward again. This time he did not raise it.
