“Why not?”
“You no catchum business there, so be,” was the retort, while a sinister expression crept into the face of the Mongolian.
“I haven’t, eh?” Ned stepped forward but the Chinee slipped between him and the door leading into the room beyond.
“You no tly get in,” spoke the Chinee warningly. He fumbled in the loose sleeves of his blouse.
But Ned was in no mood to be trifled with. He knew as well as if he had actually seen them, that hiding in the room beyond were some of the stragglers from the ship. The Chinaman who owned the den had a reputation for persuading men-o’-war’s-men to desert their ships and join the merchant service. He was, in fact, what in seaport towns is called a “crimp.” That is to say, for a consideration, he furnished men to merchant ships, principally British tramp steamers. In this way he drove a thriving trade and his pet victims were discontented navy men.
“Stand aside from that door at once,” snapped the Dreadnought Boy angrily. “Ah—you would, would you!”
From the Chinaman’s sleeve had flashed a wicked-looking blade. But Ned was as quick as his adversary—in fact, a shade quicker. He jumped forward and seized the Chinaman’s wrist, wringing it till the Mongolian yelled with pain. Then he took the knife and released his victim.
“Now are you going to open that door, or do I have to make you a prisoner and have you locked up on a charge of resisting a United States officer?” he shot out.
“No have key,” wailed the Chinee.
“Then I’ll take another way.”