I throwed up my hands and told the taxi driver where to go. The weaker sex, hey? Tomato sauce!
Well, we reached the dock and found our ship to be a dirty, disreputable-lookin' tramp steamer. At the gangplank is lollin' a sailor, which both me and Ptomaine instantly pegged as bein' one of the bunch in the hall where we give our show that night. This guy presents us with a evil grin when he recognizes us in turn, as Ptomaine comes right to the point, beatin' me to it.
"Hey, Dizzy!" growls Ptomaine, "we want to know what happened to Kid Roberts after he beat up 'at buddy of yours to-night. The champ's disappeared and"
"Ptu!" interrupts our charmin' vis-a-vis, foulin' the bay with tobacco juice, "and what should I know about yer faint-hearted friend? He's prob'ly skipped town, the big yellah bum, he was afraid the mate would lay for him to break his pretty face! I think I could do it meself!"
"What's your thoughts regardin' this?" snarls Ptomaine—and sent him sprawlin' on his back with a right-hander.
Then we run down the gangplank, peerin' about the dark and littered deck. There was a scuffle of feet behind us and I suddenly remembered we'd left Miss Angela Yerkes up on the dock. I turned to look and Wam—somethin' crashed on my head and I went out like a candle in a hurricane.
So that was that!
When I next come to life, I'm flat on my back in the forecastle of the ship—which is movin'—and I'm
