“Cheng! Cheng! Hurry with thet thar water, you blamed yellow-faced Chink.”
“Yellow-faced Chink, am I?” Tom heard the Chinaman mutter, as he reached into his loose blouse and pulled out a small vial containing a red fluid. “Well, Bully Banjo, I am about to demonstrate to you that we yellow-faced Chinks are more than a match for men of your caliber.”
As the Chinaman muttered the words, he allowed a few drops of the red liquid to fall into the glass of water.
“One swallow of this and you enter the white devil’s heaven,” he snarled, tiptoeing toward the cabin in which lay the injured leader of the Chinese runners.
“It’s poison,” gasped Tom to himself, “and he’s going to give it to Simon Lake.”
Already the tall Chinaman’s hand was on the handle of the stateroom door, and he was about to enter it when Tom’s door opened, and above the uproar of the storm he shouted:
“Hold on a minute there.”
The Chinaman faced around like a flash. There was an evil expression on his face, but it changed to a smile as he saw the boy. For a forced smile summoned so hastily to the surface it was a very creditable one.
“Ah, it is the white boy,” he exclaimed. “What do you want, white boy?”
“I’d like a drink of water,” said Tom. “Let’s have that glass a minute, will you?”