I caught Harley’s glance and divided the remainder of the whisky evenly between the three glasses.

“Good ’ealth,” said the fireman, and disposed of his share at a draught.  “That’s bucked me up wonderful.”

He lay back in his chair and from a little tobacco-box began to fill a short clay pipe.

“Look ‘ere, mates, I’m soberin’ up, like, after the smoke, an’ I can see, I can see plain, as nobody’ll ever believe me.  Nobody ever does, worse luck, but ’ere goes.  Pass the matches.”

He lighted his pipe, and looking about him in a sort of vaguely aggressive way: 

“Last night,” he resumed, “after I was chucked out of the Dock Gates, I made up my mind to go and smoke a pipe with old Ma Lorenzo.  Round I goes to Pennyfields, and she don’t seem glad to see me.  There’s nobody there only me.  Not like the old days when you ’ad to book your seat in advance.”

He laughed gruffly.

“She didn’t want to let me in at first, said they was watched, that if a Chink ’ad an old pipe wot ’ad b’longed to ’is grandfather it was good enough to get ’im fined fifty quid.  Anyway, me bein’ an old friend she spread a mat for me and filled me a pipe.  I asked after old Kwen Lung, but, of course, ’e was out gamblin’, as usual; so after old Ma Lorenzo ’ad made me comfortable an’ gone out I ’ad the place to myself, and presently I dozed off and forgot all about bloody ship’s bunkers an’ nigger-drivin’ Scotchmen.”

He paused and looked about him defiantly.

“I dunno ’ow long I slept,” he continued, “but some time in the night I kind of ’alf woke up.”

At that he twisted violently in his chair and glared across at Harley: 

“You been a pal to me,” he said; “but tell me I was dreamin’ again and I’ll smash yer bloody face!”

He glared for a while, then addressing his narrative more particularly to me, he resumed: 

“It was a scream wot woke me—­a woman’s scream.  I didn’t sit up; I couldn’t.  I never felt like it before.  It was the same as bein’ buried alive, I should think.  I could see an’ I could ‘ear, but I couldn’t move one muscle in my body.  Foller me?  An’ wot did I see, mates, an’ wot did I ‘ear?  I’m goin’ to tell yer.  I see old Kwen Lung’s daughter------”

“I didn’t know ’e ’ad one,” murmured Harley.

“Then you don’t know much!” shouted the fireman.  “I knew years ago, but ’e kept ‘er stowed away somewhere up above, an’ last night was the first time I ever see ’er.  It was ’er shriek wot ’ad reached me, reached me through the smoke.  I don’t take much stock in Chink gals in general, but this one’s mother was no Chink, I’ll swear.  She was just as pretty as a bloomin’ ivory doll, an’ as little an’ as white, and that old swine Kwen Lung ’ad tore the dress off of ’er shoulders with a bloody great whip!”

Harley was leaning forward in his seat now, intent upon the man’s story, and although I could not get rid of the idea that our friend was relating the events of a particularly unpleasant opium dream, nevertheless I was fascinated by the strange story and by the strange manner of its telling.