dully thudding gongs and a wailing as of spirits in anguish. Eight men staggered beneath a great red box; paper umbrellas blazoned with symbols of honor bobbed behind, following to the ancestral tomb some local celebrity. And once a boatload of men drifted by, all yelling together, setting off long strings of firecrackers, blowing upon conchs, and banging on gongs. No reason was apparent for their behavior. It was just China—mourning, rejoicing, in its own noisy way.
Presently the boys talked more freely, confident in the ignorance of their new guard.
"There's absolutely nothing to do," Mark said. "There are too many of them for us to overpower. It wouldn't do any good to shout at one of these boats that pass; our ruffians would throttle us before we could get help."
"Probably the other boat-people are ruffians, too," Alan suggested.
"Probably," Mark agreed, gloomily. "Oh, I don't know, though. Lots of 'em are decent, honest, straight enough chaps, they say. But it wouldn't work."
"You might offer Chun Lon more money."
"That wouldn't work, either. It would take
