“Sure, preacher. D’ye know who I mean now?”
“Yes. I’ve been watching his progress for years. He’s one of my particular—converts.”
“He’s in bad now. Keenon, of the Secret Service, pinched him for makin’ queer money. The detective let him go when he promised to stay aboard the whaler until it went out.”
The lambent light in Holy Joe’s eyes died to a restrospective glitter. Abie, keenly alert, detected a resolute movement of the missionary’s lips. They closed in a straight line.
“I’ve heard of Keenon, Abie. So he arrested one of my converts? That is too bad!”
“Got him dead, bang right! Caught him with th’ goods—molds and copper an’ a platin’ outfit. Then this Keenon lets him go.”
“Were there any witnesses to the raid, Abie?”
“Sure! A mate of th’ Bowhead saw th’ whole thing.”
“What is the mate’s name?”
“Hansen.”