Pant appeared to have lost all interest in the case. He went prowling along the water-front, peering into every junk-shop he came to. What he finally pounced upon and carried away, after tossing the shopkeeper a coin, amused Johnny greatly. It was a bamboo pole, like a fishing-pole only much larger. He estimated it to be at least five inches across the base.
“Now what in time does he want of that?” Johnny asked himself.
Arrived at the Red Cross station, Pant disappeared with his pole inside an old shed that flanked the Red Cross building. Johnny saw little more of him that day. Pant went out after lunch to return with a cheap looking-glass and a glass cutter. There was an amused grin lurking about his lips as Johnny stared at him, but he said nothing; only returned to his shed and his mysterious labors.
As darkness fell, the clan gathered. The miners in full force and variously armed with rifles, automatics, knives and pick-axes came in from the water-front. Pant came out from his hiding. He carried on his back a bulky sack which did not appear to weigh him down greatly. It gave forth a hollow rattle as he walked.
“Sounds like skulls,” said one miner with a superstitious shudder.
The little band received a welcome shock as they rounded the corner of the street by the cathedral. They chanced to be beneath a flickering street-lamp when some one shouted:
“Hello there, ’ere’s the gang!”
It was Jarvis and Dave Tower. Having alighted from the balloon and procured for their exiled friends comfortable quarters in a place of refuge, they had gone out in search of Johnny Thompson, and here they had found him.
“What’s up?” demanded Dave.
Johnny told him the situation in as few words as possible, ending, “You want in on it?”