of steps terminated in a narrow passage that led toward the stern whence came the muffled sound of voices. Descending, he glanced along the passage toward a point where, a few feet distant, another lamp flared dimly. Just beyond this lamp was a door, and from beyond the door came the sound of voices.
He groped his way to the door and knocked. There was a sudden hush, a few gruffly mumbled words, and then a deep voice snarled: "Who's there?"
"Just a visitor," announced Brent, stifling a desire to turn and rush from that fetid hole out into the clean air—but it was too late.
The voice beyond the door commanded thickly: "Come in, an' we'll look ye over!"
For just an instant Brent hesitated, then his hand fumbled for the knob, turned it, and the narrow door swung inward. He stepped into the box-like apartment, and for a moment stood speechless as his eyes strove to take in the details of the horrid scene.
The stinking air of the dank passage was purest ozone in comparison with the poisonous fog of the overheated, unventilated room. He felt suddenly sick and dizzy as he sucked the evil effluvia into his lungs—the thick, heavy smoke of cheap tobacco, the stench of unbathed humans, the overpowering reek of spilled liquor, the spent breath from rum-soaked bodies, the gaseous fumes of a soft coal stove, and
the odor from an oil lamp that had smoked one side of its chimney black.
"Shut the door! Coal costs money. What the hell ye tryin' to do, heat the hull Ar'tic? Who be ye, anyhow? An' wot d'ye want?"
Mechanically Brent closed the door behind him, as he glanced into the leering eyes of the speaker, who sat, with two other men, and a partially clad Eskimo woman, at a table upon which were set out a bottle and several glasses.
Before Brent could reply, the man across the table from the speaker leaped to his feet and thrust out his hand. Through the grey haze of smoke, Brent recognized Johnnie Claw.