“Let’s have a drink,” he said, as a greasy-looking Italian in an even more greasy apron entered the room.
“Thanks,” replied Frank; “but I don’t drink.”
“Oh, come on now,” urged the other; “take something.”
“No,” said Frank with finality. “I must go,” he continued, turning toward the door. “I am glad to have been of some assistance to you.”
But even as he turned the American in the red sweater stamped twice upon the floor and a trap door fell away beneath Frank’s feet. The lad caught a glimpse of water below.
His elbow struck the floor as he went down, and he fell head-first into a small rowboat. His head struck the bottom of the boat with sickening force, stunning him.
It was almost an hour later when his wits began to return to him. He took in the scene around him. He stood on the deck of a small schooner, and a great hulk of a man with an evil face stood near him, arguing with his friend of the red sweater.
“What is this thing you’ve brought me?” shouted the big man. “If we don’t look out we’ll step on it and break it. It hadn’t ought to be around without its ma.”
“Oh, he’ll do all right, captain,” replied the red sweater. “But I’ve got to skip or I’ll have the patrol boat after me. Do you sign or not?”
“Well, I’ll tackle this one, but if he ain’t up to snuff he’ll come back by freight, and don’t you forget it.”