It resolved
itself then after all, into simply a matter of time.
Whisperings, a raucous laugh, a curse, the clink of coin, the rattle of
dice, the scuffle of slippered feet, the low swish of the loose-garbed
Chinese attendants went on interminably. Jimmie Dale began to toss
uneasily from side to side of his bunk, and began to mumble audibly
again. Perhaps half an hour passed, during which, from time to time, the
curtain of the compartment was drawn quietly aside and the impassive
face of one or other of the Chinese attendants was thrust through the
opening--and then suddenly Jimmie Dale raised himself up on his elbow,
and pointed a shaking finger at one of these apparitions.
"Foo Sen"--he licked his lips as he spoke--"you tell Foo Sen come here!"
The face disappeared, and a moment later another--the wizened, yellow
face of a little old Chinaman--took its place.
"You wantee me, Smarly'oo?" inquired the proprietor suavely.
"Tell 'em to help me out of this." Jimmie Dale essayed vainly to rise,
and fell back on the bunk. "D'ye hear, Foo Sen--tell'em! Goin' home!"
"Alee same bletter stay sleep him off," advised Foo Sen.
Jimmie Dale succeeded in sitting upright on the edge of the bunk--and
snarled at the other.
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