To George, pondering as he ate, suddenly came the fact that Vanderdecken—the Dutchman—Dutch Pete, or whatever his name might be, certainly had behind him a crew of the same colour as himself, coupled with the fact that a crew of Chinks wouldn’t be of the same fighting colour as Vanderdecken’s lot.
He said so.
“Oh, it won’t come to fighting,” said Hank. “If it did I can hit a dollar with an automatic at twenty-five paces once a second, and I’ll learn you to do the same—but it won’t. We’ve got to take that chap with our wits, not with guns, though they’ll be useful maybe for bluff. Did y’ ever see strategy and tactics combined in the concrete?”
“No,” said George.
“Then you’ve never seen my rat trap,” said Hank.
An hour later George returned from his visit to the club with two letters for Hank. One was the expected letter from New York; the other, which bore only the San Francisco post-mark, was addressed to R. T. Fisher, and ran:
11 West Lincoln Street,
San Francisco.
Sir,
As a lover of the sea and all that therein is, I take this opportunity to beg leave to apply for a post in your expidition, can turn my hand to anything that isn’t crooked. Was gold-mining at Klondike two years but give it up owing to a frost bight but am used to dealing with rough characters. Seeing the piece about you in the evening paper to-night I make haist to apply and you will find me equal prompt in my dealings I have to do with you, and satisfactory. A line to above will oblige.
Yours, truly,
J. B. Yonkers.
P. S. Terms can be arranged.