Able seaman Runkle was within a block of the mole where the "Hudson's" launch was due to cast off at half-past ten o'clock, but he halted in his tracks.
From a doorway, a little nearer to the mole, a head was thrust out slightly as its owner surveyed the sailorman.
Then the man stepped out of the doorway to the sidewalk. He was a big fellow, with something of the slouch and swagger that are to be observed in the tough the world over.
Now this stranger stood quite still, sharply regarding the pausing sailorman.
"If there are less than six of that breed ahead of me," muttered Runkle, staring ahead once more, "then it doesn't make any real difference."
Two more men slipped out of dark recesses further on, while, an instant later, Runkle became aware that two men, who had not been visible a few moments before, were now closing up behind him.
"I wonder what these chaps think they're going to do," mused Runkle, his sailor heart quaking not at all, though he scented fight in the air. "Hullo!"
Now a sixth man stepped out from a doorway just at his side. With a lusty push this sixth man sent Runkle out into the street.
"Where are your manners, my man?" demanded Seaman Runkle, returning to the sidewalk. "And what do you mean by that?"
Suddenly the muzzle of a revolver gleamed in Runkle's face, but the sailor did not betray any sign of fright.