Being a stranger to San Francisco, Bob Bowen did not realize that they had entered upon what in these latter days had become the Japanese quarter; nor, had he known, would the fact have meant anything to him. He felt a mingled repulsion and interest in Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. It was entirely reasonable that an impecunious Hassayamper would have sought just such a dingy, antiquated rooming-house as this. And Bowen reasoned why not pass the good work along? He himself had come to town practically broke; a clap on the back from Dickover had put him on the path to fortune. Why not lend the same halo to Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle? Thus thinking, with a righteous glow of generosity warming the cockles of his heart, Bob Bowen allowed himself to be ushered into a dark hallway. To Bowen’s surprise, the hallway seemed roofed by stars and specks of light; he was only dimly conscious of a crushing blow on the head that sent him reeling and staggering into utter darkness. VII—A PAIR OF PROFITEERS. When a man is hit on the back of the head, hard enough to knock him out without any error, it hurts. Bob Bowen discovered this fact with a vengeance. He had never before been hit on the head with malice prepense; and when he came to himself he was slow in realizing what had happened, and why. He was conscious of a light, and also of a keenly stabbing headache. There seemed to be a lump of some consequence behind his right ear. The light presently made itself clear as coming from a gas-jet against the wall. Bowen was quite uncertain about his perspective, but finally decided that he was lying on the floor. Pain in his wrists and ankles told him that, incredible though it seemed, his wrists and ankles were lashed together too tightly for comfort. “Guess I’m not supposed to be comfortable,” he murmured, with the ghost of a smile. The murmur produced an effect. Into the area of gaslight above Bowen appeared a face. It was a plump but chalky face, the face of Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle. Gone were the thick spectacles and the bland, cherubic expression. In the stead of them there was a leering grin that quite transfigured the erstwhile mineralogist from Arizona. “Dropped you!” said Mr. Cheadle, with a complete absence of hesitation or culture. “You poor fish! Dropped you like a inner-cent babe, I did! Mebbe Henderson won’t grin when he lamps that mug of yours. But why you don’t carry more cash in your pocket, I don’t see—” The voice died away, and the livid face. Bowen felt unconsciousness swirling upon him; but before his senses lapsed, he realized that things are seldom what they seem, and that in his first half-amused judgment of Mr. Cheadle he had made a grievous error. Then he fell asleep, entirely satisfied on that point.