“You can’t kill a bloody Chink,” he confided, still clutching my hand; “it ain’t ’umanly possible.  It’s easier to kill a cat.  Come along o’ me and ’ave one; then I’ll tell you somethink.  I’ll put you on somethink, I will.”

With surprising steadiness of gait, considering the liquid cargo he had aboard, the man, releasing my hand and now seizing me firmly by the arm, confidently led me by divers narrow ways, which I knew, to a little beerhouse frequented by persons of his class.

My own attire was such as to excite no suspicion in these surroundings, and although I considered that my acquaintance had imbibed more than enough for one night, I let him have his own way in order that I might learn the story which he seemed disposed to confide in me.  Settled in the corner of the beerhouse—­which chanced to be nearly empty—­with portentous pewters before us, the conversation was opened by my new friend: 

“I’ve been paid off from the Jupiter—­Samuelson’s Planet Line,” he explained.  “What I am is a fireman.”

“She was from Singapore to London?” I asked.

“She was,” he replied, “and it was at Suez it ’appened—­at Suez.”

I did not interrupt him.

“I was ashore at Suez—­we all was, owin’ to a ’itch with the canal company—­a matter of money, I may say.  They make yer pay before they’ll take yer through.  Do you know that?”

I nodded.

“Suez is a place,” he continued, “where they don’t sell whisky, only poison.  Was you ever at Suez?”

Again I nodded, being most anxious to avoid diverting the current of my friend’s thoughts.

“Well, then,” he continued, “you know Greek Jimmy’s—­and that’s where I’d been.”

I did not know Greek Jimmy’s, but I thought it unnecessary to mention the fact.

“It was just about this time on a steamin’ ’ot night as I come out of Jimmy’s and started for the ship.  I was walkin’ along the Waghorn Quay, same as I might be walkin’ along to-night, all by myself—­bit of a list to port but nothing much—­full o’ joy an’ happiness, ‘appy an’ free—­’appy an’ free.  Just like you might have noticed to-night, I noticed a knot of Chinks scrappin’ on the ground all amongst the dust right in front of me.  I rammed in, windmillin’ all round and knocking ’em down like skittles.  Seemed to me there was about ten of ’em, but allowin’ for Jimmy’s whisky, maybe there wasn’t more than three.  Anyway, they all shifted and left me standin’ there in the empty street with this ’ere in my ’and.”

At that, without more ado, he thrust his hand deep into some concealed pocket and jerked out a Chinese pigtail, which had been severed, apparently some three inches from the scalp, by a clean cut.  My acquaintance, with somewhat bleared eyes glistening in appreciation of his own dramatic skill—­for I could not conceal my surprise—­dangled it before me triumphantly.

“Which of ’em it belong to,” he continued, thrusting it into another pocket and drumming loudly on the counter for more beer, “I can’t say, ’cos I don’t know.  But that ain’t all.”