did he notice when Webster slipped a small powder into one of his drinks. After that he became very drowsy. Webster, too, closed his eyes. At last Jan Breedon buried his head in his arms and commenced snoring like a mountain lion.
Webster, of the elegant phrases, waited for about five minutes. Then he rose cautiously and shook the sleeping form. His manner was rough, but there was no response. He laughed shortly as he walked across the room and opened the hall door. Zaneen stood on the threshold.
"So your long period of waiting is over," he said.
"Come ahead, let's get him out," was the curt response. "If you will lead the way I'll sling him over my back. He'll be out for the next six hours anyway, and that'll be the easiest way to carry him."
Down the long winding hall they crept, and out into the night via a narrow hidden stairway in the back of the building. Outside, an automobile was waiting. Soon they were speeding down to the docks. Never once did Jan Breedon awaken, not even as he was carried on board a tramp steamer and flung on a bunk in a dirty forecastle. Zaneen returned in the auto to his hotel. That night at least Jan Breedon would cause him no trouble.
Hours later, when Breedon awoke, he had no idea where he was. His mouth was dry and he felt as though he had been eating sawdust. When he struggled to a sitting position his head struck hard against the edge of the bunk above him, but of course he had no idea what had struck him. His head had been aching anyway, and now the pain increased until it felt as though it were almost bursting. He fell back on the blankets and closed his eyes. Even then everything seemed whirling dizzily about. Still he was dying of thirst. He must find water.
Cautiously he rose to his feet. By the motion of the bed, he knew he was on shipboard. He decided he had been shanghaied. After all, what did it matter? He wanted to return to the sea and it was as well to accomplish this by an underground route as any other. But they needn't have gone to the trouble of shanghaiing him. He'd have signed up willingly. Had he not already decided to return to the sea?
He beheld a pail of water standing a short distance away. In it there was a tin dipper. The water was cool to the taste. Several times he filled the dipper. His body seemed porous. It absorbed the water like a sponge. He wondered if Webster had been shanghaied too. He imagined so. It would help make the voyage endurable if his friend was on board. What matter that he had known him only a few hours? They could not have gotten along better if they had been lifelong friends.
Unsteadily he made his way up to the deck. It was almost deserted, although there were a few figures moving about in the bow. Then he beheld a life-buoy tied to the railing. It held his gaze as though it were riveted, and as he gazed at it speechless, all color drained from his face. For on the life-buoy was printed S. S. Banzai. He was on board Lee Grandon's boat. He had not been shanghaied because the ship needed seamen. His being there was a deliberate plot. He knew that this was to be his last voyage. The Banzai was sailing for hell.
He clutched at the railing and moaned. At that moment, a Chinaman approached him. His face was so thin it seemed to Jan Breedon, in his overwrought condition, that it was the face of a living skeleton. As a matter of fact, the Chinaman: was only the cook of the Banzai, and a
