He convinced the Celestials that he meant business. He explained that he was the much-feared Keenon. The mere possession of five cans of hop called for years in prison. Hong Kee and two coolie friends were taken by a roundabout route to Meigg’s wharf. Hansen did not need to handcuff them.
Captain Gully, on watch, held up three fingers when Abie was rowed from the dingey whaler. The crimp had half filled the contract.
“I dank it will be easy to get the others,” said the mate, whose slow brain had finally grasped Abie’s big idea.
“We should have no trouble at all,” Abie answered. He relaxed into silence and was rowed ashore.
Rain fell athwart the city. A mist rested on top of Knob Hill. Abie, hidden beneath the slouch hat and raincoat, entered several opium dens in hopes of catching some one napping. He was recognized in one of these. This would not do. He was supposed to be Keenon, a detective.
“We’ll try for a big haul,” he told the faithful mate. “We’ll break in where men are making money.”
The method pursued by the crimp to find the location of the coiners he had in mind was an involved detour which took all of an hour of precious time.
Mother Kelly, on duty as barmaid at the Blubber Room, supplied the necessary information. The Yetsky Wop, who had fortunately tried to pass a smooth two-bit piece on Abie’s mother the day before, had never met Abie. His address was on Lower Mission Street, between a Chinese laundry and a ship’s outfitter.
The crimp acted energetically. He dragged the mate out from a crowd that surrounded a soap-box preacher at Mission and East Street. He crossed the sidewalk, loosened his revolver, and started mounting flights of stairs which were steep as the shrouds to a topmast.
The Yetsky Wop, a meek-eyed Italian and his assistant coiner, had a crucible on a stove and three plaster-of-Paris molds ready for filling. Both raised their arms when Abie, backed by the mate, came around by a fire-escape.