THE SIAMESE CAT
turned chuckling: it was the first officer, a light-hearted young Anglo-Indian.
"Morning!" he laughed. "These coolies are jungli enough, aren't they? Think the whole gory ship belongs to 'em! The beggar'd have nosed into your cabin if I'd not caught him."
Scarlett reeled to the ladder-head. The fallen prowler crawled up from the slewing deck, clutched a hand-rail, limped aft under the double awning. His dirty blue garb was that of a coolie, but his face the plump baby face of Ho Kong, Christian Friend and goldsmith's clerk.
The courier, then, had undervalued their opponents.
That day—which, like all days without Laura, dragged through stale, vacant hours—Scarlett spent in planning. By night he had evolved a simple stratagem. Deserting his canvas bed on
[ 122 ]
