—Omar Khayyam.
A hand shook me roughly as I emerged languidly from my latest debauch.
"The Master wishes you! Up, swine!"
Hassim it was who shook me and who spoke.
"To hell with the Master!" I answered, for I hated Hassim—and feared him.
"Up with you or you get no more hashish," was the brutal response, and I rose in trembling haste.
I followed the huge black man and he led the way to the rear of the building, stepping in and out among the wretched dreamers on the floor.
"Muster all hands on deck!" droned a sailor in a bunk. "All hands!"
Hassim flung open the door at the rear and motioned me to enter. I had never before passed through that door and had supposed it led into Yun Shatu's private quarters. But it was furnished only with a cot, a bronze idol of some sort before which incense burned, and a heavy table.
Hassim gave me a sinister glance and seized the table as if to spin it about. It turned as if it stood on a revolving platform and a section of the floor turned with it, revealing a hidden doorway in the floor. Steps led downward in the darkness.