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The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Sydney sprang up. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. Practically. Her face expressed nothing. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. When I told her that there were no available nurses this side of Hong-Kong, she offered her services at once, and broke her journey. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing.
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