ABOARD THE "MUANG-FANG"
This seemed to be the case. In fact, for two days Owen found the voyage dull. On that first night, the growing gale sent the ladies to their cabin; and as the "Muang-Fang" staggered out from the shelter of distant Cambodia, the grey waste of the South China Sea rolled full sweep in howling onslaughts. By day, Owen watched their slow fight southward through whirling rain and smoking wave-crests; by night, he see-sawed, half-awake, on a charpoy lashed beneath dripping canvas. Here he woke, in a dismal dawn, to find that the courier was mistaken.
A figure in a long yellow oilskin coat flapped by, shouting:
"Get out, ye suar! Below with you! Can't speak your lingo, can't I?" A glistening rubber boot kicked out mightily. Something soft thumped the lower deck. "Perhaps you'll savee that!" shouted the man in oilskin. He
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