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I was vastly amused, during my voyage in the King-Shing, by the superstitions of her crew. Their devotion to their idols was indeed truly edifying. A religious man, according to his lights, was Sam-Sing, and rigidly punctual in the daily observance of incense-burning, gong-banging, and other rites supposed to be propitiatory of the deity.
When, after lasting a day and a night, the gale abated, we were well down the Yellow Sea, and the skipper, or Ty Kong, whose name was Sam-Sing, determined to hold on for the port where the junk's owners dwelt. I had no objection to make to this, nor had the mandarin, who possessed friends and relatives in the south.
I suppose the English-trained crews of their navy must have been persuaded out of these amazing notions, and taught the European compass, but the ideas of Sam-Sing and his merry men were as old as their vessel. I have not yet described my mandarin friend. His name was Ki-Chang; he was a mandarin of the fifth class, his distinctive mark being a crystal button on the top of his cap.
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