"Say, yous ole webfoot," said one of the hoodlums, "loosen up, can't yous, an' fork over the price o' a drink, all around?"
The fellow shambled closer to the sailor and held out one hand with an expectant grin.
"Not a bob will I give you for a tot of drink," answered the sailor, "for I'll be keelhauled if you don't look as though you'd already been topping the boom too much for your own good, but I'll loosen up, as you call it, for a good meal all around."
His hand went into the pocket of his trousers and he drew out a big roll of bills. A greedy gleam darted into the hoodlum's eyes as he glimpsed the bundle of money, and those at his back pushed closer together, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing while the sailor's head was bent.
Suddenly the rascal who had acted as spokesman for the rest made a leap and a grab.
"Avast there, you loafing longshore scuttler!" yelled the young tar. "What sort of a beachcomber's trick do you call that?"
The hoodlum had whirled, the roll in his hands, and was making off as fast as his legs could carry him. The sailor sprang after him, but the rest of the thieving pack jumped in his way and began using their fists, hoping to give their pal the necessary time to get clear with the money.
Carl Pretzel, with an angry shout, withdrew from the open window, dashed from the room, down the stairs and out at the front door. Without paying any attention to the sailor and those with whom he was tussling, the Dutch boy rushed past the struggling group and made a bee line after the thief.
Carl was too fat for a swift sprinter, but the thieving hoodlum was handicapped by a game leg, and Carl was able to overhaul him slowly.
Looking over his shoulder in order to take in the situation behind, the thief saw the Dutch boy, and redoubled his efforts to get away. An alley lay just ahead, and the thief turned into it. Carl plunged after him, but when he got into the alley, the fellow with the money had mysteriously vanished.