“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. John stared palely. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket.
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