At the sound of footsteps he looked up and showed a dark, high-cheek-boned face with a thin, hawk-like nose, and a pair of piercing, steely-gray eyes. The man was clean shaven and his lips were thin, close-pressed, and cruel. This countenance was framed in a mass of lank, black hair, so long that it hung down to the shoulders of his faded shirt.
The figure, its occupation, and the previous incidents of the adventure all combined to form an intuition which suddenly flashed with convincing force into Tom’s mind:
This place was the hidden camp of the Chinese runners, and the figure on the soap box was Bully Banjo—the feared and admired Simon Lake himself.
“Right smart work, by Chowder!” he exclaimed, setting aside his banjo and rising on his long, thin limbs as the boys and Fu were marched into his presence. His voice was as thin, sharp, and penetrating as his eyes, and was unmistakably that of a downeaster. In fact, Simon Lake was a native of Nantucket. From whaling he had drifted to sealing. From sealing to seal poaching in the Aleutian, and from that it was but a step to his present employment. A shudder that they could not suppress ran through the boys as they realized that they were in the presence of this notorious sea wolf.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE GRIP OF SIMON LAKE.
But Simon Lake’s voice, setting aside its rasping natural inflection, was mild enough as he addressed them.
“Wa-al, boys, yer see thet I’ve got a smart long arm.”
“I’d like to know by what right you’ve had us brought here in this fashion,” broke out Tom indignantly. “We’re not interfering with you. Why, then, can’t you leave us alone?”
“Jes’ cos I want er bit uv infermation frum yer,” rejoined Simon easily. He leaned down and picked up a bit of wood. Then, drawing a knife, he shaped it to a toothpick and thrust it in his mouth. During the pause the boys noticed that several rough-looking men had sauntered up from various positions about the camp. Among them was one short, stocky man, who might have been the thickset man of the boat the night before. This individual’s hat was shoved back—for it was warm and stuffy in this place—exposing a ruddy stubble of hair. A bristly mustache as coarse as wire sprouted from his upper lip. This man was Zeb Hunt, Bully Banjo’s mate when afloat and chief lieutenant ashore. In some ways he was a bigger ruffian than his superior.
“Ez I sed,” resumed Simon Lake, when he had shaped the pick to his satisfaction, “I want er bit uv infermation from yer. It ain’t often thet Simon Lake wants ter know suthin’ thet he kain’t find out right smart fer hisself. But this yar time it’s diff’ent. I’m a kalkerlatin’ on you byes helpin’ me out.”