“The reason for wanting them, of course, is that they provide cheap labor, the cheapest, in fact. There are men and syndicates in California, operating ranches, fruit and truck farms, who will pay well to have a batch of coolie laborers delivered to them, and no questions asked. Consequently, smuggling rings come into being for the purpose of supplying this illicit demand.”
“Well, what shall we do about this information, Uncle George?” said Frank. “Don’t you think we ought to tell the authorities?”
“I certainly do,” said Mr. Temple. “When we reach San Francisco, I shall lay this matter before the Secret Service the first thing tomorrow, and you will have to go along to tell them what you overheard.”
“Meanwhile,” commented Jack, “these two fellows would escape.”
“Well, we can’t help that,” decided Mr. Temple. “We are not officers of the law, and can’t arrest them. As for shadowing them, to see where they go on reaching San Francisco, for I suppose that’s their destination, that is out of the question, too.
In the first place, they already have a suspicion that Frank overheard them, and accordingly they would be on watch. In the second place, we all will be ready for a good night’s rest when we arrive. Anyhow, I imagine that from what Frank overheard the revenue officers will get a good enough clue to enable them to run down this gang.”
“You mean,” questioned Frank, “that knowing this man Handby is a spy, they can watch him and learn who are his confederates?”
“Something like that,” said Mr. Temple.
After that the conversation became desultory. Mr. Temple lay outstretched on the couch with cigar and newspaper. The boys wandered out again into the club car, and beyond to the observation platform. It was growing late, and they were nearing Oakland. The transcontinental railroad lines end at that city on San Francisco Bay, and the trip to the metropolis is completed by ferry—a short run of twenty minutes.
“I can sniff the salt water,” said Jack. “Smell it. We must be getting close to the Bay.”