, resuming his pipe, "it's like this, son. This ship
belongs to one of the Six Chinese Companies of Chinatown in Frisco.
Charlie, here, is one of the shareholders in the business. We go down
here twice a year off Cape Sain' Lucas, Lower California, an' fish for
blue sharks, or white, if we kin ketch 'em. We get the livers of these
an' try out the oil, an' we bring back that same oil, an' the Chinamen
sell it all over San Francisco as simon-pure cod-liver oil, savvy?
An' it pays like a nitrate bed. I come in because it's a Custom-house
regulation that no coolie can take a boat out of Frisco."

"And how do I come in?" asked Wilbur.

"Mee dear friend Jim put a knock-me-out drop into your Manhattan
cocktail. It's a capsule filled with a drug. You were shanghaied, son,"
said the Captain, blandly.

*****

About an hour later Wilbur turned in. Kitchell showed him his bunk with
its "donkey's breakfast" and single ill-smelling blanket. It was located
under the companionway that led down into the cabin. Kitchell bunked
on one side, Charlie on the other. A hacked deal table, covered with
oilcloth and ironed to the floor, a swinging-lamp, two chairs, a rack of
books, a chest or two, and a flaring picture cut from the advertisement
of a ballet, was the room's inventory in the matter of furniture and
ornament.

Wilbur sat on the edge of his bunk before undressing, reviewing the
extraordinary events of the day. In a moment he was aware of a movement
in one of the other two bunks, and presently made out Charlie lying on
his side and holding in the flame of an alcohol lamp a skewer on which
some brown and sticky stuff boiled and sizzled. He transformed the stuff
to the bowl of a huge pipe and drew on it noisily once or twice. In
another moment he had sunk back in his bunk, nearly senseless, but with
a long breath of an almost blissful contentment.

"Beast!" muttered Wilbur, with profound disgust.

He threw off his oilskin coat and felt in the pocket of his waistcoat
(which he had retained when he had changed his clothes in the fo'c'sle)
for his watch. He drew it out. It was just nine o'clock. All at once an
idea occurred to him. He fumbled in another pocket of the waistcoat and
brought out one of his calling-cards.

For a moment Wilbur remained motionless, seated on the bunk-ledge,
smiling grimly, while his glance wandered now to the sordid cabin of the
"Bertha Millner" and the opium-drugged coolie sprawled on the "donkey's
br