Part 95 (2/2)
We returned to the river, where our prisoners were landed, and we three lads had more than one spell on sh.o.r.e before we left that port, notably being in the city on the night of the Feast of Lanterns; but though we had several more brushes with pirates, they were all trivial affairs with small junks, the destruction of the last three being the crowning point of our achievements. Indeed, this and the sinking of another in search of which, upon excellent information, Captain Thwaites had suddenly gone after we had set out on our shooting expedition, and in which engagement Smith a.s.sured me he had greatly distinguished himself, were such blows to the piratical profession that its pursuers were stunned for the time.
We remained upon the coast for another six months, and then: were ordered home, to the great delight of everybody but Ching, who parted from us all very sadly.
”You think Mr Leardon like to take Ching see Queen Victolia?” he said to me one day in confidence.
”I'm afraid not,” I replied seriously.
”Ching velly solly,” he said. ”Plenty lich man now! plenty plize-money!
Ching wear silk evely day in Queen Victolia countly. You no tink captain take Ching?”
”I'm sure he would not,” I said.
”Ching velly good interpleter; velly useful man.”
”Very; you've been a splendid fellow, Ching!”
He smiled, and a fresh idea struck him.
”You tink Queen Victolia like Ching teach lit' plince and plincess talk Chinese?”
Again I was obliged to damp his aspirations, and he sighed.
”What shall you do when we are gone, Ching?” I said.
”Open fancee shop again. Sell muchee tea, basket, sh.e.l.l, culios, fo'
Inglis people. Glow tow-chang velly long. Wait till Mr h.e.l.lick come back with jolly sailo' boy, fight pilate.”
And with that understanding, which was doomed never to be fulfilled, we parted.
For the next morning the men were singing--
”Huzza! we're homeward bou-ou-ound. Huzza! we're homeward bound.”
And homeward we all--including Tom Jecks, who soon recovered from his injury--returned in safety, HMS _Teaser_ steaming gently one summer day into Plymouth Sound; and this is her log--my log--written by a boy. But that was years ago, and I'm an old boy now.
THE END.
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