Hansen strode stiffly toward East Street. He vanished around the corner. Abie dived toward the Blubber Room. He went through the back door, reached under an old icebox, and pulled out a tiny vial. It was filled with a mixture of chloral-hydrate and morphia--two drugs which would produce a deep sleep if taken in quantity. Mother Kelly supplied Abie with a half-pint of bar whisky. Into this the crimp poured a tablespoon of the drug. He estimated the knockout dose for an average man to be fifteen drops of chloral and morphia. He had some experience in that line. The flask he pocketed and carried back to the Beacon Light was known as a “shoo-fly.” Abie’s new idea was to get rid of Holy Joe and satisfy Captain Gully at the same time. His professional pride had changed to the soul-pleasing belief that the skipper of the Bowhead should be handed something as a reminder of the old days of shanghaiing. It would not be good ethics to let him get off without a hot one. The hot one being Holy Joe, who most certainly would make trouble. From Abie’s view-point all men were equal. He slipped into the Mission Hall like an eel. He took a shaky seat between a frowsled seafarer and a water-rat. He stared over the swaying heads of the congregation to where Holy Joe loomed upon a platform. The preaching went on after a suggestive pause. The presence of Abie, the crimp, had almost brought forth a remark from the missionary. He recognized Mother Kelly’s unsavory son. He changed the text and spoke of prodigals. Abie was all eyes. He pretended to be deeply interested. Back in his brain his plan took form. He reviewed exactly what he was going to say to Holy Joe. It would take finesse to land the last man on the deck of the whale-ship. The service closed with the hymn: “Salvation, Salvation--” changed to “There’s a Light in the Window.” The meeting began to disperse. Abie waited until Holy Joe descended the platform and started down the aisle. “A minute, preacher,” he said. “You know me, don’t you?” Holy Joe, so called along the water-front, dropped a lambent glance upon Abie’s glossy hair. “How are you, boy?” he asked. “I’m glad you came to-night. I hope to--” “Cut that,” said Abie, remembering his role. “You see, I came to you because you was the only man who could help.” “Help what?” Abie paused a suggestive minute. He stared around the rapidly emptying mission room. “There’s a man dyin’ out in th’ fo’c’s’le of th’ whaler Bowhead, preacher. He ain’t got nobody to pray for him. His name is Yetsky. He was hit by a Chink. He’ll die and they’ll throw him overboard to th’ fishes.” Holy Joe, as Abie the Crimp expected, became interested. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, glancing at his flock going out the door. “No! It’s life or death, preacher. The Yetsky Wop--” “The Yetsky Wop?” “Sure, preacher. D’ye know who I mean now?” “Yes. I’ve been watching his progress for years. He’s one of my particular--converts.”