“You dirty dog—”
The nose of the launch rose on the swell. As it came down it caught the forward end of the skiff under its sharp keel.
In the same instant there was the crack of a pistol, and Jerry pitched from his skiff into the water. Burke, the gun still quivering in his hand, stared over, searching the glistening surface of the tide.
“Take that gun away from him!” a voice from the rear of the launch commanded. “He had no business to shoot—”
“I did it in self-defense!” Burke growled. “In another moment he would have got me with that oar! Get a move on, you fellows! Grab that package! We’ve got to get ashore before Lee Hin makes his getaway!”
But when they came to the shack of Lee Hin, ten minutes later, the lights were out and the place was deserted.
The Chinaman was gone.
On the money he had saved from his profits in opium running Burke was able to travel north in first-class style. He sojourned for a time in Canada, then went east and visited New York.
He told himself he was through with dope. Every man’s hand was against the drug-runner, while the vender of good moonshine or smuggled liquor was looked upon as a public benefactor. No more opium for him—he would become a bootlegger.