The first voice retorted:
“No, you can’t.”
“Well, anyway, we got one; the one with the mask. Didn’t hit him hard. He ought to be coming round.”
Mark tried to discover the meaning of all this. The place had been raided. The Orientals had escaped. They had swarmed out yelling like mad men probably. The quick action gas would make them act as if under the influence of liquor. Probably they had tumbled the raiders over. But who were these raiders?
He did not have long to wait for the answer. A rough hand dragged the mask from his face. He looked up into the frank blue eyes of a burly policeman.
“You’re comin’ round. Sit up. Why, you’re no Oriental! You’re a white kid. What you doin’ here?”
Mark sat up and told them what he had been doing.
“That quick action gas now,” laughed one of the men, “wouldn’t be bad stuff for the police force now and again.”
Suddenly Mark made an effort to rise. He had thought of the plight of his friends on the O Moo.
“You—you’ll help me launch my schooner!” he exclaimed.