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Casey, a smaller edition of the proprietor, appeared, and the three men were led to the back room, where they seated themselves at a round table, while the proprietor himself took their orders. The drinks were soon served, the big man bringing one for himself, and joining them.

“Now, then,” he said, lifting his glass, “we’ll drink to a good-natured settlement o’ this job. What’s this man done out West?”

They all drank.

“Robbed the Wickenburg stage of the first cleanup of Jim Mahar’s placer mine. About ten thousand dollars he got away with.”

“Jim Mahar!” said Benson. “Why, that’s the name of the man he murdered in Manitoba.”

“How about it, mate?” said the big man, turning to Rogers.

“Same man,” he said quietly. “I shot him; but I never robbed him.”

“You didn’t?” answered Quincy, derisively. “You were recognized!”

“The mine was mine, and the dust I took I had washed out with my own hands. He got that mine away from me on a technicality, Quincy, and you know it.”

“Oh, I know there was some dispute; but that’s not my business. I’m here to take you back, and I’ve got to do it.”

“What’s the use,” said Benson, “if you haven’t got a clear case against him? Now, I have. He shot Mahar on sight, in the presence of a dozen witnesses.”

“You mean,” said Rogers, “that I was quickest. He pulled first; but I beat him to it, that’s all.”

“Well,” said the big proprietor, “we’ll have to think on this a little. So, let’s do a little thinking.”

They responded to the extent of doing no more talking. Yet it could hardly be said that they were thinking. A fog closed down on their faculties, the room and its fittings grew misty, and in a few moments Benson’s head sagged to the table, Quincy lay back in his chair, and Rogers slid to the floor.

“Casey,” called the big man, and Casey appeared. “You needn’t go to South Brooklyn for the three men we need for the crew to-morrow mornin’. Here’s three. One’s a sure sailorman, anxious to ship, and the other two’ll do. Get Tom to help you upstairs with ’em and get ’em ready. You know the trick. Change their clothes, give ’em a bagful each, and dip their hands in that tar bucket, then wipe most of it off with grease. Get some from the kitchen.”

And so were shanghaied a Deputy Sheriff of Arizona, a member of the Northwest Mounted Police, and a desperate outlaw and fugitive from justice.

They wakened about ten next morning with throbbing headaches, and clad in greasy canvas rags, each stretched out in a forecastle bunk with a bag of other greasy rags for a pillow. Rogers was the first to roll out, and after a blear-eyed inspection of the forecastle, which included the other two, he ejaculated, “Well, I’ll be blanked!” Then he shook each into sitting posture, listened to their groaning protests, and sat down on a chest, shaking with silent laughter, while the other two resumed the horizontal.

But he did not laugh long. Certain sounds from on deck indicated that he would soon be wanted, and certain indications of wintry weather in the shape of snow flurrying into the forecastle reminded him of his raiment. He hauled out the clothes bag from his bunk and opened it. To his surprise he found, neatly folded, his suit of store clothes; but as this would not do for shipboard wear he sought farther, and found a warm monkey jacket and guernsey, the property, no doubt, of some sailor who had died in the boarding-house or run away from his board bill. He also found a note addressed to Bill Rogers, which he read, and again ejaculated, “I’ll be blanked!” adding to it, however, the comment, “A square boarding master.” Then he punched and felt of the bag’s contents, and smiled.

Donning the guernsey and jacket, he went on deck just in time to meet a big, bearded man who was hurrying to the forecastle door.