“What’s the matter, preacher?” he asked. “Are you prayin’?”
“I’m thinking, Abie, of what you told me about Yetsky Wop. Did Hong Kee strike him with provocation?”
“The Chink ran amuck. He tried to kill Yetsky’s brother.”
“Angel Face?”
“Sure! The one they want for five murders. I found him with Yetsky when I made the pinch. I’m going to let them go. I’ve changed heart, preacher.”
Holy Joe wound his arms around Abie’s waist, and lurched to an erect position. Abie experienced the sensation of having his pockets picked. He wondered if the preacher had been seeking the flask of whisky. It was a strange action for a missionary. He attributed it to the effects of at least fifteen drops of chloral-hydrate.
The dingey swung its bow. Hansen drew in an oar. The dark outlines of the Bowhead were ahead. Captain Gully stood on the forepeak. He lowered a bo’swain’s ladder.
“Up we go,” said Abie. “Go right into the fo’c’s’le, preacher. There’s Yetsky Wop an’ Angel Face an’ Hong Kee waitin’ for you.”
Captain Gully unbattened the booby-hatch. He stepped aside. He leaned against a pinrail. Holy Joe, staggering and mumbling, crossed the whaler’s planks, turned, and descended the greasy steps.
Abie grinned at the pleased skipper. “Six,” he whispered. He reached for the rusty revolver which should have been in his pocket.