Kitabı oku: «The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XIV.
AT THE CHILLINGWORTH RANCH
Mr. Dacre and Jack reached the ranch without accident or adventure. They found Mrs. Chillingworth awaiting them with a well-spread supper table ready, and the cheerful glow of lamps about the house. She was disappointed that her husband had had to go around with the sloop, but realizing that it was an unavoidable task she made no comment upon it. If they had fair wind and made a good “landfall,” the rancher’s wife said that the missing members of the party ought to arrive about midnight. That was, unless they elected to sleep on board the sloop.
Soon after Mr. Dacre and his nephew had stabled their horses and done up a few of the rougher chores for Mrs. Chillingworth, Sam Hartley and his burro were heard returning – that is, the burro was, for he gave a loud “he-haw” of anticipation as he caught a whiff of the hay. As Mr. Dacre and Jack hastened with lanterns to meet the returned Secret Service man, they noticed that the burro bore a burden of some kind across its back. As the lantern light fell on this load, they were astonished to see that it was the limp body of a man.
“I’ll explain all about this later,” said Sam, anticipating their questions. “The first thing is to get this poor fellow into the house. Jack, you take charge of the burro. This isn’t work for boys. Now, Mr. Dacre, if you’ll lay hold of his arms, I’ll take his legs and go easy for there isn’t much life left in the poor chap.”
It was characteristic of Sam that he had betrayed no astonishment on seeing Mr. Dacre. He already knew that he would, in all probability, be there that evening, and when Sam Hartley saw that a thing had fallen out as might have been expected, he made no comments. It was the unusual only that aroused him.
While Jack, consumed with curiosity, stabled the burro, Mr. Dacre and Sam Hartley bore their limp burden into the house. Mrs. Chillingworth at once made ready a spare room for him, while Mr. Dacre and Sam laid him on the lounge and set about doing what they could to revive him.
The first thing Mr. Dacre noticed was that there were red bands round the man’s wrists where the flesh had been cut deeply into. For the rest, his limited medical experience showed him that the man was suffering from exhaustion and possibly fright. What had caused the abrasions on his wrists, however, Mr. Dacre could not imagine.
The man was dressed roughly, in a faded shirt, very dirty and stained corduroy trousers, and cow-hide boots. He had no hat and his lank hair hung dankly about his bloated, red face. His nose was huge and bulbous, and his whole appearance was that of a man of dissipated habits.
Presently – while they were still trying to revive the fellow – Jack came in from the barn. As soon as his eyes fell upon the man on the lounge, he gave a cry of surprise.
“Why that’s one of the fellows who was set to guard us!” he exclaimed.
Sam Hartley looked up quickly.
“It is, eh? One of the chaps who went to sleep and gave you a chance to use that knife?”
“Yes. What is he doing here? Where did you find him? What is the matter with him?”
Jack fairly poured out the questions. Sam Hartley smiled at his impatience.
“One at a time, lad,” he said, with a deliberation that was positively irritating to Jack, who was wild with curiosity. “Now here’s Mrs. Chillingworth, and I guess she’s come to tell us that the bed is ready. We’ll get this fellow into it, and then when we’ve all had some supper I’ll tell you just how I came to find him. I reckon he’s one of Bully Banjo’s horrible examples.”
“Horrible examples?” echoed Jack. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Sam Hartley slowly, as he helped Mr. Dacre lift the still senseless man, “that he’s been paying pretty dearly for his sleep.”
Led by Mrs. Chillingworth, holding the lamp high above her head, they bore him to a small room upstairs. But it was some time before they could do more than watch him anxiously and await the time for him to speak.
In the meantime, after supper, as he had promised, Sam Hartley told how he came to run across the unfortunate fellow.
“As you know,” he began, after he had lighted his pipe, and they all sat about in interested attitudes in the big, comfortable living room; “as you know, when I left here this afternoon, it was for a definite purpose – to discover if possible how Bully Banjo and his men managed to get inland from the sea without crossing any trails. Well, I found out that at the same time as I found this fellow.
“It was this way: I had an idea in my mind as to how those rascals were getting into the canyon. Well, I found out that soon enough. As I expected, they were using a tunnel made by the river under the range, between the canyon and the sea. It was the simplest thing in the world for them to land their Mongolians right on the beach and then march ’em through that hole. In some places I guess they must have had to wade up to their knees, though.”
“Oh, then you didn’t go through it?” inquired Jack.
“No indeed,” was the rejoinder. “I wasn’t going to take a chance like that. I just got close enough to see the big opening – mostly screened by brush it was – the tracks in the sand along the side of the river told me the rest. But all that isn’t telling you about that poor fellow upstairs.”
Sam Hartley paused here, looked very grave, and shoved the tobacco down in his pipe bowl. Then he resumed:
“We’ve all read of pirates and stringing up by the thumbs, and things like that, but I never thought I’d live to see the victim of such practices. But that – or something very like it – is what had been done to our red-faced friend. As I emerged from the vicinity of the tunnel I heard a groan a little way up the canyon. I followed the sound up and soon came to where they had strung that chap up in a tree by his wrists. There he was, dangling about in the hot sun, suspended by his two wrists and nothing else. His feet were a foot or more off the ground.”
His hearers uttered horrified exclamations. Then Jack asked:
“But how did they come to tie him there, and why?”
“Well, the ‘why’ part of that is soon answered,” said the Secret Service man. “It was as a punishment for letting you escape. As to why they chose just that place, I imagine it was because they had trailed you boys down the river bank. When they reached the tunnel and found no trace of you, they knew you must have got clear away, and so they proceeded to string up that chap as a horrible example.”
“But what about the Indian? He was equally guilty. Why didn’t they punish him, too?”
“Well, that I cannot answer. I guess, though, the Indian probably cleared out during the excitement following your escape. His race are pretty wise, as a rule, and he surmised there would be trouble in store for him if he stayed. I’m mighty glad I found that fellow, though, for other reasons than those of humanity.”
“What – for instance?” asked Mr. Dacre.
“Well, I think we may be able to get a lot of useful information out of him about the gang. Information that will help me to get them just where I want them. For, you see, when I do get ready to start in on them, I don’t want to run any chances of a slip up. I want to be able to bring my hand down on the whole shooting match and stamp them out for all time.”
When they retired that night the red-nosed man had so far recovered as to be able to give an account of himself. As Sam had guessed, it was Bully Banjo who had triced the unfortunate fellow up as a “lesson” for his carelessness. The man also confirmed Sam’s guess that the Indian had saved himself by running away. But he had not escaped scot-free, for before the Chinook managed to make his escape Simon Lake had ordered him tied up and several lashes administered. These had been laid on by Zeb Hunt, with a promise of more to come, but when the gang returned from the fruitless search after the boys it was found that the Indian had, in some manner best known to himself, slipped his bonds and made his way to freedom.
From the red-nosed man it was also learned that Bully Banjo intended to run the Chinamen through that day, and set sail the same night for the island where, as the rancher had suspected right along, deliveries of Chinamen were made. In answer to Jack’s questions it was explained that the Chinese were brought across the Pacific as far as Vancouver Island in an ostensible freight steamer. From this they were transferred at a lonely spot to another vessel, which brought them to the island. Here they were kept till opportunities presented themselves to get them through into the States.
No real apprehension was felt at the ranch concerning the rancher and Tom Dacre till about noon the next day, when they failed to put in an appearance. Even allowing for headwinds and other possible delays, this began to look serious.
It was about mid-afternoon that a man on horseback reached the ranch. He was a neighboring landholder, whose ranch bordered in some places on the coast of the Sound. His face was grave as he slipped from his horse in front of the ranch house, and he saw Sam Hartley and Mr. Dacre coming toward him with a good deal of relief.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to face the woman with the news I’ve got,” he said. “That there sloop of Chillingworth’s drifted ashore bottom up in my cove this morning.”
From behind the little group there came a piercing scream, and Sam Hartley turned just in time to catch Mrs. Chillingworth as she swooned.
“And there was no trace of her occupants?” asked Mr. Dacre, in a voice he strove to make steady in spite of the trembling of his lips.
The other shook his head.
“We had a tough blow last night,” he said, “and I guess that sloop went over before they could do a thing. My advice is to watch the beaches. Their bodies are likely to drift ashore sooner or later.”
CHAPTER XV.
“STEAMER, AHOY!”
“Well, Tom, all I can say is – we must keep on hoping for the best.”
It was Mr. Chillingworth who spoke, the morning after the casting away of the sloop.
He and Tom Dacre were standing against the lee rail of the schooner amidships, watching with gloomy faces the white spume as it sped by. Above them the canvas was bellied out, heeling the schooner smartly and putting her on her sailing lines. On the other hand, could be dimly seen the blue shores of the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. Bully Banjo’s schooner was making for the open Pacific, but what was her destination they had not the slightest idea.
The events of the night before seemed like a nightmare viewed in the crisp, sparkling, early daylight, with the white deck of a fast schooner under their feet. Somewhat to their surprise, Simon Lake had offered them no violence, and had even accommodated them with a berth in the cabin, turning out one of his own men for the purpose. If Mr. Chillingworth was as good a judge of human emotions as he deemed himself to be, it appeared to him that the Chinese runner was glad rather than otherwise at the way things had fallen out, and, so far at least, not disposed to offer them any active harm. At breakfast, which was just over, Simon Lake, who, with Zeb Hunt, had shared the meal with the castaways, had seemed particularly inclined to be amiable. One thing, though, was noticeable: he did not refer in any way to the occurrences of the night before, nor to the events which had preceded them. For all that appeared to the contrary, any listener to the conversation might have imagined that Tom Dacre and the rancher were honored guests of the sea ranger.
But, of course, all this show of friendliness had not for an instant deceived either of the castaways. Tom’s experience in Simon Lake’s camp had taught him just what the man was, and what he would dare to do. As for Mr. Chillingworth, he had long ago made up his mind that their present host was the most dangerous man on the Pacific Slope. Doubtless he was even now discussing a course of action with Zeb Hunt, down in the cabin, where both had been closeted since breakfast. Taking advantage of this, Tom and Mr. Chillingworth had slipped on deck to try to get an opportunity to talk the situation over.
But, not so very greatly to their surprise, this proved to be a hard thing to do. As soon as they stopped at any one spot and began to talk, some member of the crew – many of whom Tom recognized as having occupied the camp in the canyon – happened along on some errand or other, apparently accidental. Of course, there was little doubt that they had been told to overhear all they could and report it to their leader.
“Have you any idea where we are bound?” inquired Tom, not caring much whether a man who had just come up ostensibly to coil a rope heard him or not.
“Not the slightest,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “unless it can be to that island of Simon Lake’s – or rather of the syndicate engaged in this rascally business.”
Tom’s face fell.
“Once they get us there,” he said disconsolately, “we won’t stand much chance of getting away again till they wish it.”
“That is so,” agreed Mr. Chillingworth, in an equally gloomy tone; “yet what are we to do?”
He sank his voice.
“I have thought over a dozen plans of escape, but none of them will bear analysis. It looks as if we are absolutely in this rascal’s power.”
“Why not hail a passing vessel – provided one comes near enough?” suggested Tom. “Surely our signals would attract attention.”
“If we could make them – yes,” rejoined Mr. Chillingworth, “but you don’t suppose, do you, that they would give us such an opportunity? Why the minute one of us sprang on that rail to wave for help we would be knocked down and perhaps badly injured.”
“Just the same I’m going to make a try for it,” thought Tom to himself, “if any opportunity offers.”
Simon Lake himself, and his scrubby-haired first mate, had now emerged from the cabin companionway, and were pacing the inclined stern deck. Every now and again, Lake crossed to the side of the man at the wheel and peered into the compass. From time to time he cast an eye aloft at the canvas. The schooner was carrying every bit of plainsail, despite the smart wind that was humming through her rigging. Evidently, Lake did not believe in allowing his ship to loaf along. He carried an amount of canvas which would have given an old-fashioned skipper heart disease. The schooner showed the strain, too. Every now and again, she would give a heel that sent her lee rail under and the yeasty foam boiling and swirling along the scuppers.
At last, shortly before noon, the opportunity for which Tom had been waiting presented itself. Dead ahead, across the tumbling blue water, could be seen the heeling, rolling form of a steamer. She was coming toward them and if she held her present course, would be bound to pass them a short distance to lee. When she did so, Tom made up his mind that he was going to try to attract her attention.
On came the vessel, black smoke pouring from her funnel and her masts cutting crazy arcs against the sky. Now and then the sun flashed on her wet plates as she rolled. She was a black craft with towering white upper decks, which showed her to be a passenger craft. On board her was safety, law, and order. Tom’s heart fairly ached to attract her attention. The case was no different with the rancher, but what with anxiety over the worry his wife would be feeling, and general trouble over their position, Mr. Chillingworth had had little to say for the last hour or two. He had sat silently at the foot of the foremast, his head in his hands and lost in the dismal trend of his thoughts.
The steamer was now almost abeam of them. So close was she that Tom could catch the glint of brass buttons on her bridge and the gay colors of the ladies’ dresses as they walked along the promenade decks, and no doubt remarked to their escorts on the beauty of the little schooner heading out to the open sea.
As the two ships drew abeam, Tom leaped into the lee rigging, hanging on by one of the fore shrouds. His cap – an old sea affair, given him by Bully Banjo – was in his hand, and he was raising his arm to wave it.
“Ahoy! Steamer, ahoy!” he yelled.
The wind bore his cries down toward the other vessel and a commotion could be seen on her bridge. Presently there came a gush of white steam from her whistle and her way decreased noticeably. But Tom had hardly had time to take in these details before a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and the next instant Zeb Hunt’s rough fist had felled him to the deck.
“You young shark!” snarled the mate, “this is the worst day’s work you’ve ever done. You keep off there, Chillingworth,” he went on truculently, as the rancher came forward protesting. “This is our affair.”
The rancher glanced helplessly about him. The entire crew had gathered about the prostrate boy. It would have been worse than madness to have resisted any of Hunt’s mandates just then. Suddenly a voice hailed from the stern.
“Good work thar, Mister Hunt. Jes’ keep that young catamount down thar while I untangle this yar mess.”
It was Simon Lake. As he spoke, he took a megaphone from its rack just inside the companionway.
“Schooner, ahoy! What’s the trouble on board you?” came a hail from the steamer.
“Ain’t nawthin’ wrong here as I’m awares on,” hailed back Simon, his downeast drawl more pronounced than ever.
“Nothing wrong, you deep sea vagabond, then what in the name of Neptune do you mean by stopping us this way? Don’t you know we carry the mails?”
“Sorry,” shouted Simon apologetically, “but, yer see, we’ve got a kind uv a poor looney bye aboard. He thought, poor critter, it ’ud be er joke ter hail yer.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” shouted back the commander of the steamer. “Well, you’d better keep your looney under lock and key when mail boats are passing. Come ahead there.”
Deep down in the engine room of the steamer the bells jangled and she raced off once more, bound Seattleward. But as it so happened the vessel, which was the “Islander” of the Seattle-Hawaii Line, had a record for punctuality, and her slight delay following Tom’s hail was used by the captain as an excuse for some hours he had lost at sea in bad weather. It, therefore, received more space in the Seattle papers than it would have done otherwise. In fact, quite an item appeared about the “crazy boy” on board the outward-bound schooner, who had delayed the “Islander” by his antics. In course of events the paper with this news in it reached Sam Hartley.
This was two days after the “Islander” had docked. But, nothing daunted, Sam set out for Seattle that same night with the bottle-nosed man as a companion.
He was anxious to find the captain of the “Islander,” and get from him a description of that schooner. If she was the Chinese runner’s vessel, the bottle-nosed man would recognize her from the steamer skipper’s description. At least, Sam hoped so.
At any rate, it looked like the only likely clew to the fate of Mr. Chillingworth and Tom, and was, therefore, worth looking into, for after an examination of the sloop Sam had soon come to the conclusion that there were unusual circumstances connected with her abandonment.
For one thing, he had found that the rope attached to her bow had been cut – and with a keen knife, too. This was the rope, it will be recalled, that was thrown to the capsized mariners from the deck of the schooner, and had been cut when the sloop was set adrift.
But in the meantime Mr. Chillingworth and Tom were encountering a series of adventures stranger than any that had yet befallen the Bungalow Boy, and we must leave Sam and follow their fortunes in the hands of Bully Banjo and his men.
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ATTEMPT AT FOUL PLAY
As might have been expected, Tom’s outburst was followed by confinement to the cabin. But this he did not mind so much, as Mr. Chillingworth was his companion, and they found more opportunities to talk over their position thus than was the case on deck, where they were constantly under observation.
The cabin of the schooner was plainly furnished. In the center was a swinging table, oilcloth covered, with four plain swivel chairs at each side, and one at each end. On the floor was some gaudy matting. Above the board hung a big brass lamp. It depended from the crossbars under a skylight opening on deck. At the farther end of the cabin was a flight of ladder-like stairs, leading to the deck. On each side were doors, opening on small staterooms. The wood was pine – of no very good quality – and varnished. At the forward end was a bulkhead of the same material, along which ran a lounge covered with leather, or an imitation of it.
They had been almost two days at sea now, and still no intimation had come from Simon Lake as to what his intentions were in regard to them. But even Tom’s attempt to signal the schooner was not punished with any violence, except Zeb Hunt’s knock-down blow.
“Reckin you’ll be safer in the cabin arter this, by Juniper,” Simon Lake had said, helping the recumbent boy to his feet, and that had been all, except that Tom had deemed it prudent to carry out the hint conveyed in Lake’s words to the letter.
It would be wearisome and useless to detail the conversations between Mr. Chillingworth and his young companion. They were all on one subject, and that was: how were they to escape from their predicament. But they all ended in the same place. That is to say – nowhere. Night and day the schooner swarmed with men, so to try to cut away one of the boats, as Tom had suggested, was soon declared to be manifestly impossible.
At meals Simon Lake and Zeb Hunt shared the table with them, but at other times they had the cabin to themselves, except for the occasional ghost-like goings and comings of the tall Chinaman. In this connection it may be interesting to note that since coming on board Tom had seen the recreant Fu. The former employee of Mr. Chillingworth was working on a sail with the crew when his eyes met Tom’s. But whatever he may have felt, no expression appeared on the yellow mask that did duty for his face. Tom surmised that, in exchange for a promise of loyalty to the gang, he had been made one of them. But of the status of the tall Chinaman, who seemed to be a man of some influence with both crew and officers, it was more difficult to guess. Mr. Chillingworth was inclined to think he was some sort of a priest. He based this theory on the veneration which Fu had shown on the night he had seen his big countryman at the burial of the dead in the cove. For the rest, the tall Mongolian ate by himself and had his own cabin. Not by word or sign, since they had been on board, had he conveyed a hint that he had ever seen Tom before, although he must have recognized the boy he had conducted to Simon Lake at the camp in the canyon.
Hitherto the schooner had had fair weather, although the wind had been strong. But this afternoon the sky began to grow overcast and there was an ominous feeling in the air that betokened the coming of a storm. By supper time, in fact, the schooner was laboring along in a heavy sea and under much reduced canvas. But even the reefing which had been done was against Lake’s will. In her cabin they could hear his voice coming down through the skylight in angry argument with Zeb Hunt.
“By Chowder, it’s my way to clap on all she’ll carry.”
“But you’ll have the sticks out of her by sundown,” Zeb had protested.
“All right, then, shorten up if you want to. But not more than one reef in the main sail, mind yer. I’m a downeast sailorman, and we don’t b’lieve in sailing ships ter suit young ladies’ seminaries.”
By sundown the wind had developed into a screeching gale. Every timber and bolt in the schooner cried out and complained with a different voice. Under the heavy sail that Simon Lake obstinately insisted on carrying, she was being heavily racked.
From the way in which things in the cabin were tumbled about, the gale must have been terrific, but when Mr. Chillingworth tried to go on deck to see what sort of a night it was, he was met by a stern order from Simon Lake.
“Go back thar in ther cabin, Chillingworth,” he ordered. “The deck ain’t no place fer you ternight.”
Soon after, he came down and entered his cabin. He emerged in oilskins. Zeb Hunt followed his example. What, with the trampling of feet as the crew ran about the decks, the increasing motion of the ship, and the cruel uproar the creaking timbers kept up, there was no sleep for the castaways, and till long after the usual hour for going to their cabin they sat up. A certain amount of apprehension mingled with their other feelings. It is one thing to be upon deck, active and alert, in a big storm, and quite another pair of shoes to be confined in a stuffy cabin, not knowing what is happening above and whether at any moment you may not see green water come tumbling down the companionway.
Shortly before midnight the rancher and Tom Dacre turned in. But it was not to sleep. The storm was decidedly increasing in fury every minute. The little vessel seemed fairly to stand on its head one instant and the next to be rearing upward, pointing toward the stars.
What time it was Tom had no idea, but he figured afterward that it must have been about two hours after they turned in when he was awakened from a troubled doze by loud voices in the cabin outside, and a trampling of feet, as if several persons were there. Opening the door a crack, he peered out.
He saw Simon Lake, very pale, and bleeding from a big cut in his head, laid out on the forward lounge, while Zeb Hunt and several of the others bent over him.
“It all comes of crackin’ on so,” Hunt was saying. “If we hadn’t carried all that canvas, we wouldn’t never have had that sail rip loose, and then Bully here wouldn’t have got hit with that block.”
“Is it a bad cut, Zeb?” asked one of them.
“Well, it’s purty deep,” said Zeb, who by this time had opened a locker and was selecting some bandages from it. “But I reckon we kin fix it. How d’yer feel now, Bully?”
The injured man gave a groan. It was evident that he was partially stunned by what Tom guessed, from what he had overheard, was a falling block. Soon after he was carried into his cabin, the tall Chinaman being left to watch him.
After that the hours wore on somehow. From time to time Tom fell into an uneasy nap to awaken with a start of alarm and a horrible fear that the schooner was at last going to the bottom.
There was a clock in the cabin, affixed to the forward bulkhead, and after one of these sudden awakenings he decided to peep out and see what time it was. He longed for the coming of day with every nerve within him. If the schooner was to sink, he felt that it would be better in the daylight than in the pitchy darkness.
Steadying himself by the side of the bunk in which Mr. Chillingworth lay sleeping as peacefully as if he were at home, Tom peered out. He caught his breath with a start as he did so, and saw the figure of the tall Chinaman standing upright above the table in the center of the cabin.
In front of him was a glass of water. He had evidently just fetched it from the small keg at the after-end of the cabin for the injured man.
Tom could hear Simon Lake’s voice from another stateroom:
“Cheng! Cheng! Hurry with thet thar water, you blamed yellow-faced Chink.”
“Yellow-faced Chink, am I?” Tom heard the Chinaman mutter, as he reached into his loose blouse and pulled out a small vial containing a red fluid. “Well, Bully Banjo, I am about to demonstrate to you that we yellow-faced Chinks are more than a match for men of your caliber.”
As the Chinaman muttered the words, he allowed a few drops of the red liquid to fall into the glass of water.
“One swallow of this and you enter the white devil’s heaven,” he snarled, tiptoeing toward the cabin in which lay the injured leader of the Chinese runners.
“It’s poison,” gasped Tom to himself, “and he’s going to give it to Simon Lake.”
Already the tall Chinaman’s hand was on the handle of the stateroom door, and he was about to enter it when Tom’s door opened, and above the uproar of the storm he shouted:
“Hold on a minute there.”
The Chinaman faced around like a flash. There was an evil expression on his face, but it changed to a smile as he saw the boy. For a forced smile summoned so hastily to the surface it was a very creditable one.
“Ah, it is the white boy,” he exclaimed. “What do you want, white boy?”
“I’d like a drink of water,” said Tom. “Let’s have that glass a minute, will you?”
The Chinaman looked hard at him for an instant as if he would have penetrated his thoughts. Then, satisfied apparently that Tom had seen nothing, he said:
“Bym bye you can have. Jes’ now me go give dlink to Missa Lake.”
Still grinning like a yellow image, he glided into the cabin occupied by the injured man.
“Here, give it to me, quick. Consarn it, the thirst is burning me up,” Simon Lake cried, as he reached for the glass.
But before his fingers could close on it, it was dashed from his grasp and its contents spilled over the floor.
“Consarn your mischievous hide, what d’ye mean by that?” bellowed Lake, furiously turning on Tom, who had entered the cabin in two flying leaps, just in time to save the rascal from drinking the stuff.
“I don’t owe you any debt of gratitude,” rejoined Tom, “but I don’t want to see you poisoned by a scoundrelly Chinaman. That fellow drugged that water.”
“Wh-a-a-a-a-a-t!”
“That’s right. If you don’t believe it, have him searched. You’ll find a small vial of red stuff in his blouse. He dropped some of it into your water, and – ”
Stunned by the suddenness with which his rascally plot had been discovered, the Chinaman had hitherto remained motionless. Now, with a bellow of rage, he leaped at Tom, flinging his long, wiry arms about him.
The boy struggled bravely, but the yellow man had the first hold and he was tremendously strong, as Tom soon found out while he helplessly thrashed and struggled.
But either Simon Lake was not as badly injured as they thought, or else he managed to make a superhuman effort, for just as the Mongolian had Tom down on the cabin floor and his yellow fingers were digging in his throat, Lake hurled himself out of his bunk upon the yellow man, bearing him with resistless force to the floor under his great weight.
