“My last man’s all right,” he assured the captain. “I’ll put him in a bunk.” The scene in the fo’c’s’le of the whaler was not exactly to the crimp’s liking. He turned from the foot of the ladder and searched the gloom for Holy Joe. The missionary struck a match. The yellow flame passed from bunk to bunk. Evil, vice-stamped faces, answered the search. The match went out. Abie, crouching with a belaying-pin in his hand, suddenly felt his wrist gripped with compelling fingers. He writhed. His arm was bent back. Holy Joe’s voice was low and demanding. “Drop that! Now turn. Now go up the ladder. Follow me. Don’t twist. It’s no use at all, Abie.” The astonished skipper of the Bowhead was a witness to Abie’s forced exit from the booby-hatch. Holy Joe, so called along the Barbary Coast, hurled the crimp against the fife-rail on the foremast. The preacher’s smile was bland. He swiftly closed the hatch. He drove in a holding-pin with his right heel. He turned to Abie: “I didn’t drink the knockout drops. I poured it down my shirt-front. I didn’t leave the mission because I like the atmosphere of this whaler. You see, I _am_ interested in Yetsky Wop and Yetsky’s brother, Angel Face, the coiner. He is wanted by the government. I’ll be promoted for capturing him.” Abie did not need to be told Holy Joe’s right name. He pieced events together. They dove-tailed. The reason for the missionary showing interest in Yetsky Wop--his habit of visiting the hangouts of crooks--the adept manner in which he picked pockets, all pointed to a crushing conclusion. “You’re Detective Keenon!” declared the crimp. The Secret Service man turned up the lower left-hand corner of his vest and showed the insignia of his office. He said with the politest kind of a bow, after glancing at the hatch: “Thanks, Abie!” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 13, 1920 issue of Argosy All-Story Weekly.]