“It’s a bad thing for a son to keep anything from his mother.” “Got to! My life’s always in danger.” Abie reached into his hip-pocket, brought out the half-pint of whisky, and pulled the cork with his teeth. “Have some?” Holy Joe moistened his straight lips. Abie could not see the preacher’s expression on account of the darkness. A light smacking indicated that the bait was acceptable. Holy Joe had been seen in too many dives and saloons along the coast of Barbary to refuse a drink. “With my blessing,” said the preacher, handing back the flask. Abie pretended to take an enormous swallow. He pressed his tongue over the mouth of the bottle. Even then he tasted the bitterness of the chloral-hydrate and morphia. He wondered how Holy Joe stood the decoction. The preacher commenced swaying on the thwart. He rocked the small boat slightly. Hansen glanced at him. “Abie,” said Holy Joe in a low voice, “I’m not pleased with that whisky.” “Oh, it’s all right, preacher. You know we make it in the cellar. We got a private still. You see, me being a government man allows us to do it.” “It was bitter, Abie.” The crimp realized that he would have to be careful if he wanted to deliver Captain Gully’s last man. Holy Joe was apparently going under. There was a quarter-knot to be rowed before the Bowhead could be boarded. “What’s the matter, preacher?” he asked. “Are you prayin’?” “I’m thinking, Abie, of what you told me about Yetsky Wop. Did Hong Kee strike him with provocation?” “The Chink ran amuck. He tried to kill Yetsky’s brother.” “Angel Face?” “Sure! The one they want for five murders. I found him with Yetsky when I made the pinch. I’m going to let them go. I’ve changed heart, preacher.” Holy Joe wound his arms around Abie’s waist, and lurched to an erect position. Abie experienced the sensation of having his pockets picked. He wondered if the preacher had been seeking the flask of whisky. It was a strange action for a missionary. He attributed it to the effects of at least fifteen drops of chloral-hydrate. The dingey swung its bow. Hansen drew in an oar. The dark outlines of the Bowhead were ahead. Captain Gully stood on the forepeak. He lowered a bo’swain’s ladder. “Up we go,” said Abie. “Go right into the fo’c’s’le, preacher. There’s Yetsky Wop an’ Angel Face an’ Hong Kee waitin’ for you.” Captain Gully unbattened the booby-hatch. He stepped aside. He leaned against a pinrail. Holy Joe, staggering and mumbling, crossed the whaler’s planks, turned, and descended the greasy steps. Abie grinned at the pleased skipper. “Six,” he whispered. He reached for the rusty revolver which should have been in his pocket. He had lost it during the boat ride! It was the weapon he intended using on the missionary. A light tap behind the ear would finish the work of the narcotic. Abie was resourceful. He thought in split seconds. He heard voices below. One was Yetsky Wop’s.