"La, la, but you are queek," the man muttered. "It is ze brave Super-in-tend-ent and he come for his gr-great frien' Cleek—is it not so, my frien'?"
"Yes, yes—you know! He is here?" gasped Mr. Narkom, barely, if at all, stopping to think of any possible peril to himself. "You shall be finely rewarded for this, my good man," he said, warmly. "Lead on——"
"But yes," was the reply, "a brave reward. Come!" He turned silently and swiftly, beckoning to the Superintendent to follow.
Nothing loath and unsuspecting, Mr. Narkom turned and followed the sailor till they reached one of the docks—and a barge.
"This is dock 3," he said, as he noticed the number.
"Quite right," said his guide. "Get in, queek—ze boat—ze others, zay weel return and it weel be too late."
That was sufficient for Mr. Narkom. Obviously, his friend was in danger; equally obvious was it that this guide had brought him as a reinforcement against returning Apaches.
"Get in" he did, and it was not until he had stumbled down a dark companionway into the grimy cabin and heard the door click swiftly behind him that he realized he was trapped—deceived by a trick as simple as it had been effective. The sweat stood out on the Superintendent's forehead, rolling down in great beads, while his hands grew cold and clammy.
"Cleek!" he cried, hoping even now that his ally were with him to help and be helped! But a light laugh—half snarl, half sneer—caused him to turn. His guide stood regarding him with mocking amusement.