CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
CHING HAS A NOTE.
I suppose that Mr Reardon thought better of his threat, or probably he came to the conclusion that the expectation of punishment would prove as effective as the punishment itself.

At all events nothing was said, and the routine of the ship went on as usual.

The decks were scrubbed, the guns polished, and the marines drilled, till, as Barkins said, they could walk up to the top of a ladder and down the other side without touching.
The Jacks, too, had their gun drill and sword exercise, till their cutlasses flashed about with an exactness that promised to shave a head without cutting off an ear--promised: the performance might have been another thing.
As soon as I had an opportunity I started to go below and see Ching, but before I was half-way there I ran against Smith.
"Where are you going in such a hurry ?" "To see how Ching's getting on." "Did you put on a clean shirt ?" "No," I said innocently.

"I can't stand one every day." "Oh, come, this won't do!" cried Smith.

"Here, hi, Barkins!" "What's the row ?" said our messmate, coming up.
"Row enough.