Believing he was about to be murdered, the old man fought and screamed in a frenzy of fear. I saw red-handed capture in front of me, and tried desperately to throttle him. The noise of our struggle had roused the sleepers in the back room and I could hear their startled cries as they dropped out of their bunks. I had no thought of the money now; it was a question of getting away. Just when the old man was exhausted and I was in a fair way to get out of his clutches, some of the more daring Chinamen from the back room rushed in. I got a blow on the head that knocked me half out, and they fell on me like a pack of wolves, smothering me with kicks, cuffs, digs, and scratches. The whole thing was over quicker than I can write it. I was stretched out on my back on the floor with two Chinamen holding each of my arms down, two sitting on each leg, and another with both hands in my hair. They all chattered at once. Then one came with a lamp, and I was inspected curiously, like some strange, fearsome monster that had been trapped. The old man, now recovered from the battle, gave a sharp order. A short, muscular, knotty-legged China boy went to the back room and returned with a rope. I was carefully raised to a sitting position and my arms held to my sides while the boy threw a couple of half hitches around my body, pinioning me safely. The rope was then run to my ankles, where he deftly tied some more strange and wonderful Chinese knots, and I was secured; scratched, bruised, bleeding, and asking myself if they were going to send for the police or execute me on the spot. Another order from the boss and they lifted me bodily and sat me on a box in the corner of the little room. They stood by, eyeing me in silence now. The old man sat on his pallet. There was an odor of chloroform in the room, but he did not appear to be any the worse for what he had inhaled. Our struggle had probably worn it off. He picked the handkerchief from the floor where it had fallen and sniffed it. Holding it out toward me, he asked in fair English: “What for, him?” Something told me I had a chance yet. I decided to tell the old man the truth. “Him medicine,” I answered. “What for medicine?” “Make you sleep.” “What for sleep?” “I think maybe take your money.” “How you know me money?” “I come your store; I look see.” He got up, rolled his blankets away, and, raising up the small trapdoor in the floor, opened his box and made sure that it had not been disturbed. They all began talking again. I heard the fatal words “luc zhe,” “luc zhe,” which means policeman. In desperation I cried, “No, no, no luc zhe. Him no good. I got plenty good China friends. Me good friend Chew Chee, China boy. Before—Chew Chee stop ‘skookum house’ I bring him Vancouver. Me good man.” I remembered my Chinese letter and cried out desperately: “You look my pocket; you see China letter; him good letter. You look my pocket.”