Frank was not speaking thus without cause or merely from folly. He cherished the hope that perhaps their two captors could be thrown off guard and overpowered, whereupon they could proceed to overawe the taxi driver outside. But he quickly
realized Matt Murphy was on the alert, while the Chinaman, whose head showed in the little light coming in from the front window, undoubtedly also was ready to cope with any attack. It was difficult for Frank to realize that in a great city they could thus be carried away captive. Yet he was forced to admit to himself that such was the case. A similar realization of the hopelessness of their position, had he only known it, was being borne in on his companions, too.
If he alone were in danger, thought Frank, he would shout for help, attack his captors, and run the risk of being shot or stabbed. But when he thought that such an attempt to gain freedom might result in Bob or Jack or Mr. Temple being killed, he shuddered, and could not bring himself to make the attempt. Similar considerations restrained each of the others.
All this time the auto had been making good progress, although the boys from their sketchy knowledge of San Francisco’s topography were unable to make any surmise as to the direction in which they were being driven. They had climbed and descended several hills and were now on a stretch of level going which, however, was rutted and uneven and far from smooth.
Abruptly the auto was brought to a stop. The
chauffeur tapped on the window in front. All but a small oval of the partition was boarded up, and the Chinaman’s head obscured that. At the signal, Murphy reached for the door, but the chauffeur was ahead of him and opened it from the outside.
“Here we are,” said Murphy. “Climb out.”
Mr. Temple and the boys descended, the Chinaman bringing up the rear. The motor van drew up behind them at almost the same moment, its rear doors were swung open and the palanquin was thrust out and lowered to the shoulders of its former bearers.
They stood in a lonely spot on the northern shore of the peninsula where San Francisco is built. The nearest habitations were rusty ship chandleries and homes of Italian fishermen on a ragged street some distance in the rear. A suspended street lamp, swinging in the wind, cast strange shadows over the rough frame structures as the boys looked back. Not far away rose Telegraph Hill, with other lights starring it in irregular pattern.
About them were scattered odds and ends of the waterfront, broken oars, tarry barrels and even the skeleton of a long boat from which the boards had been ripped away, exposing the curved ribs half buried in the sand.