“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.”

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.”

“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.  “Topside man catchee my inside godown this time, ch’hoy! he makee big bobbely.”

“Never mind about that.  I’ll pay the fine.”

“No can do, no can do so-fashion.  Massa pay squeeze; all-same, my catchee plenty bobbely, makee my too muchee sick.”

“I’ll take care you don’t suffer.  Come along:  there’s no time to lose.”

“This time Sunday, look-see, massa.  No workee Sunday, no fear; that joss-pidgin day.”

“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.  He beat up three or four of his neighbours, and proceeded with them to the godown, the Englishmen following to ensure that no time was lost.  In half-an-hour the necessary supplies of petrol and lubricating oil were being wheeled up on trucks towards Mr. Martin’s house.  On the way Smith noticed a number of reddish lights at irregular intervals, moving in the same direction, and there were more people in the streets than when he had come down, all hurrying one way.

“By Jingo!” said Mr. Martin, “the news has spread, and it looks uncommonly like a torchlight procession.  Hullo, Jenkins, what’s the matter?”

“That you, Martin?” replied the man addressed.  “Everybody’s talking about an aeroplane that’s come down somewhere near Mackenzie’s shed, and I’m off to see if it’s true.  Haven’t you heard about it?”

“I did hear something of the sort.  I’ll be up there, too, by-and-by.”

Smith was a little annoyed at the possibility of being delayed by a crowd of spectators, but there was evidently no help for it.  He returned to Mr. Martin’s house, being assured by his host that he need have no anxiety about the safe delivery of the petrol.