Abie opened his coat, ran a thumb within the armhole of his checked vest, and showed the gold insignia that was pinned to his suspender strap.
“United States Secret Service,” whispered Holy Joe. “I never knew it, Abie.”
“Sure! I pinched those guys to-night, then I changed m’ mind an’ let ’em go—to th’ whaler. They started fightin’ among themselves—there’s some more out there—an’ Captain Gully sent word to me that Yetsky Wop was dyin’ an’ needed a preacher. I thought of you.”
Abie searched for sign of Hansen at the shore end of Meigg’s wharf. He whistled shrilly. The mate, sleepy and damp, emerged from the shelter of a shed.
“Right out to th’ Bowhead!” commanded the crimp. “I’ve kept my promise to Captain Gully. This is the man!”
The mate was a silent soul. He started rowing with long whalerman’s strokes.
Abie sat on the after thwart with Holy Joe. They faced the seaman whose glance was directed toward the Market Street ferry-house.
The Bowhead was some little distance from the shore. It showed a pale riding-light on the foremast. No other ship was near the whaler.
“So you are Keenon?” said the missionary suddenly.
“Bet I am, preacher! Even my mother don’t know it.”