STARTLING PERILS
In the harbor at Vladivostok a thirty-ton gasoline schooner threaded its way through narrow channels left by ocean liners and gunboats toward a deserted water-front where half-dismantled warships of ancient Russian design lay rotting in the sun. Straight to a rickety wharf they made their way.
Hardly had they thrown a line over a swaying post when two men sprang across the narrow space.
“Watch your step!”
It was Johnny Thompson who spoke. The man with him was the young doctor of his outfit.
As they cleared the dock and entered a side street of this metropolis of eastern Russia, they walked with a heavy tread; their step lacked the elasticity that their youthful faces would warrant. They were either very weary or very heavily burdened. No burdens were visible, though something might be concealed beneath their greatcoats. There was, indeed, a bulkiness about their forms from shoulder to waist, but in this Arctic clime, coming as they had from the north, one might easily credit this to sweaters.
As they reached the shadow of a building, Johnny stopped and fumbled in his pocket. At the same time his gaze wandered away toward the north.
“Wonder where Pant is now?” he grumbled. “I miss the little rascal, don’t you?”
“Sure do.”
“Wonder what made him drop us flat that way?”