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Updated: May 6, 2025
"I can't waste time talking." Smith whispered in his ear. "Yes; Mr. Smith will give you ten shillings for yourself if you hurry up." "Ch'hoy!" cried the other man. "Massa numpa one genelum; my go long too, Ching-Fu. No can catchee ten bob evely day." Ching-Fu suffered himself to be persuaded.
Here they saw a group of Chinamen squatting on the floor, engaged in playing a game with small figures carved in bone. "Hi, boys," called Mr. Martin; "can tell where Ching-Fu keeps?" "My tellee massa," cried one of the younger men, rising. "My go long that side, show wai-lo." "Come on, then: chop-chop." "Allo lightee, massa: my savvy."
"Now, Ching-Fu," said Mr. Martin, "this gentleman wants seventy gallons of petrol, at once. Mr. Mackinnon got a cable about it yesterday. Come and get the cans, and have them taken up to my house at once." "No can do, massa," replied the man in a shrill tone of voice, that seemed singularly unbefitting to his massive frame.
He led them through what appeared to Smith an intricate maze of narrow alleys, and presently pushed open the door of a hut, and called the name of Ching-Fu, entering without ceremony. The Englishmen heard voices raised as in altercation, and after some minutes the guide reappeared, followed by a burly compatriot, rubbing his eyes. "He catchee sleep, say what for come fetchee this time."
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