Near at hand, coolies trotted and stooped, laying out more of these circular baskets, filled with tiny dough-balls.

Makers of rice-wine, said Heywood; as he strode along explaining, he threw off his surly fit.

The brilliant sunlight, the breeze stirring toward them from a background of drooping bamboos, the gabble of coolies, the faint aroma of the fermenting _no-me_ cakes, began, after all, to give a truant sense of holiday.
Almost gayly, the companions threaded a marshy path to the river, and bargained with a shrewd, plump woman who squatted in the bow of a sampan.

She chaffered angrily, then laughed at some unknown saying of Heywood's, and let them come aboard.

Summoned by voluble scolding, her husband appeared, and placidly labored at the creaking sweep.