“Hullo, sailor-man, what you wantee?” he inquired blandly, squinting at Ned’s command through his slanted black eyes.
“We come from fleet,” responded Ned, who knew something of the wily Oriental’s ways. “You catchum any sailors here?”
The Chinaman slowly shook his pigtailed head. Details of armed sailors had halted in front of his place often before and he knew what this one meant.
“Me no savee sailors. We no catchum ’Melicans. Nothing but Johns (Chinamen),” he declared with a bland smile.
But Ned was not satisfied. Ordering his men to remain above, he pushed past the protesting Mongolian and down the slippery, foul steps.
“What you do?” demanded the Chinaman angrily.
“See how much truth there is under that yellow skin of yours,” responded Ned, as he shoved open a door at the foot of the steps and was met by a blast of foul, heated air from the den within.
CHAPTER III.
IN CHINATOWN.
Close behind him was the fat, oily Chinaman, protesting, almost weepingly, that he harbored no “’Melican sailors.”