Frank sat up and looked around. Deep-toned bells seemed to be ringing in his head, which throbbed with a pain that made him weak and faint.
He was on the pier, and a man in yachting dress was approaching him. There seemed to be something familiar in the appearance of the man.
Frank wondered what had happened, for his wits were so scattered that he could not pull them together readily.
“That was a decidedly rough deal you received, Mr. Merriwell,” said the man in the yachting suit. “I saw it all, and you did not have a fair show.”
Frank looked at him stupidly.
“You know me,” he said, speaking with an effort; “but you have the advantage of me. Somehow, though, your face does seem familiar. I believe I have seen you before.”
“Sure you have! Why, have you forgotten last night in Chinatown?”
“No. I have not forgotten. You are Mr. Chandler.”
“Yes. Permit me to assist you to rise. I hope you are not badly hurt. It was a wicked blow, delivered with all the strength the old man could muster.”
“Blow?” muttered Frank, as he was aided to his feet, but found that at first he was unable to stand without aid. “Was I struck? It seems that somebody hit me on the head.”