The narrow, ill-lighted streets were quite deserted,
but from the river and the riverside arose that ceaseless jangle of
industry which belongs to the great port of London. On the Surrey
shore whistles shrieked, and endless moving chains sent up their
monstrous clangor into the night. Human voices sometimes rose above
the din of machinery.
In silence the three pursued their way, crossing inlets and circling
around basins dimly divined, turning to the right into a lane flanked
by high, eyeless walls, and again to the left, finally to emerge
nearly opposite a dilapidated gateway giving access to a small wharf,
on the rickety gates bills were posted announcing, "This Wharf to
Let." The annexed building appeared to be a mere shell. To the right
again they turned, and once more to the left, halting before a
two-story brick house which had apparently been converted into a
barber's shop. In one of the grimy windows were some loose packets of
cigarettes, a soapmaker's advertisement, and a card:
SAM TUK
BARBER
Opening the door with a key which he carried, the boy admitted Sir
Lucien and Sin Sin Wa to the dimly-lighted interior of a room the
pretensions of which to be regarded as a shaving saloon were supported
by the presence of two chairs, a filthy towel, and a broken mug.
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