Holy Joe, so called along the water-front, dropped a lambent glance upon Abie’s glossy hair.
“How are you, boy?” he asked. “I’m glad you came to-night. I hope to—”
“Cut that,” said Abie, remembering his role. “You see, I came to you because you was the only man who could help.”
“Help what?”
Abie paused a suggestive minute. He stared around the rapidly emptying mission room.
“There’s a man dyin’ out in th’ fo’c’s’le of th’ whaler Bowhead, preacher. He ain’t got nobody to pray for him. His name is Yetsky. He was hit by a Chink. He’ll die and they’ll throw him overboard to th’ fishes.”
Holy Joe, as Abie the Crimp expected, became interested.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, glancing at his flock going out the door.
“No! It’s life or death, preacher. The Yetsky Wop—”
“The Yetsky Wop?”