Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. ‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. "Confusion!" cried he; "there is another boat in our wake. If you’ll forgive my saying that, and implying what goes with it.
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