I did not like the looks of the Keedy person—no, not at all. I may have instinct in such matters; I don’t know. A diver is obliged to do most of his work in pitch darkness and by the sense of touch, and such work may develop instinct in general. I won’t stop to discuss the question.
But that yellow face with a black mustache smacked across it like a smear of paint, and arrows of eyebrows shooting up northeast and northwest from a regular gouge of a wrinkle between the man’s eyes wasn’t the kind of physog worn by the deacon who takes up the collection in a Sunday-school. He stood with back against the door.
“Go through him, gents,” he directed. “And hand me the gun when you come to it.”
There wasn’t any gun, but they got the two sacks of gold, and my little stock of paper money as well. Then they gave me a shove into a corner, and all of them stood off and looked at me. The excitement had brought old Ingot Ike on to his feet and he joined the ring of spectators.
“You are in bad,” stated Mr. Keedy.
Silence gives consent; so I kept still.
“Who is backing you in this job? Where’s the rest of your gang? You’re in here without a gun. Now, where’s the main party?”
“The main party,” said I, mad enough now to do a little talking, “is down at the ferry, foot of Market Street. She is that old fool’s daughter, and she was crying when I left her. I’m just in from the East, and when I came out on to the street from the ferry this evening, setting foot in San Francisco for the first time—”
“You’re a liar!” yelped Captain Holstrom. “You’ve been on my trail for seven days, and you have just knocked me down when I was entertaining a lady friend and wasn’t looking. You robbed me. The money was found on you. But Rask Holstrom has got friends who won’t see him done. Here they are. And into the dock you go, blast ye!”
“You’re in bad,” reiterated the Keedy person, narrowing the crease between his eyes.