‘Don’t want it to break out bleeding again. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. If there was a Yankee bar-keep in HongKong, James Boyle would soon locate him.
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