The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
grappled with the man, and then the two figures suddenly parted. The fellow went flying through the air, and went into the water with a huge splash.
“Over the hip!” panted O’Grady exultantly. “Well thrown, what? Want to land the chap, Breck?”
“Let him go,” came the soft voice of Yu. “Let him go. There will be a commotion, and we cannot waste time.”
Indeed, yells and shouts were already going up from the loafers. I lost no time, but got aboard the launch, with O’Grady laughing behind me. Our bags were passed down, the engines purred into life, and a moment afterward we were heading upstream under the bridge.
Who the assassin was, I did not know or care. The attempt proved, however, that somebody had been keeping an eye on our friend Yu.
III
Our launch had the air of a tiny yacht rather than a river boat, with its after awning, and gleaming brasses, and speedy power. There was a sleeping cabin with two bunks; the crew consisted of two men and a steward, who took their orders from Yu. As soon as we were away from the city, dinner was served to me and O’Grady on the after deck. We were going upriver at slow speed. The dinner was remarkable in its variety and excellence.
“Faith, your friends do you well, old chap!” affirmed the Irishman. “This craft is a wonder; a lippin’ dinner, too! I had no idea China was like this. Haven’t tasted such Sauterne in ages.”
His comments were excusable, and we did full justice to the dinner.
Afterward, with cigars alight, we stretched out in the long Singapore chairs and watched the shores drift past. There was a glorious full moon, and we were alone on the river, for night travel is not popular; indeed, I wondered that our crew would consent to keep going, since the water-devils are greatly to be feared, and we had indulged in no firecrackers or gong-beatings. Our helmsman appeared to know the waters intimately.
I had long since learned, however, that James Sze Kohler and the men who served him were in a class by themselves.
Yu had vanished forward. O’Grady and I had the after-deck to ourselves, and we chatted freely. I gathered from what O’Grady said that he had been something of a rover; now and again there was a disquieting hint in his words or voice—a hint of ruthless efficiency, of reckless immorality. That was in keeping, of course; he was the sort of man who laughs at odds, who indulges in any perilous enterprise with a whole-hearted impulse, and who dies with a jest on his lips. One could not help liking O’Grady. He was the type that young men admire and imitate—vainly.
Upon thinking it over later, I realized that he had said nothing definite about himself.
We turned in, at length, and as we undressed I observed two things. O’Grady wore a pistol slung in a neat armpit holster; and, tightly about his neck, a little pouch. To this latter I paid slight heed at the moment, thinking naturally that he was wearing a scapulary.
I was asleep in no time, taking the upper bunk. When I awakened, it was one o’clock; on the wall hung my illuminated watch pointing the hour. I wondered what had wakened me, then was aware of a subdued movement in the cabin. As I turned, the berth-springs squeaked abominably. The cabin door slammed; when I switched on the light, I was alone, save for the snoring figure of O’Grady.
Slipping into trousers and shoes, I doused the light and opened the door. As I did so, a vibrant, excited voice sang out on deck, followed almost instantly by a shot from some little distance, to judge by the sound. I caught my coat from the hook near the door, dragged out my pistol, and started for the deck. I heard O’Grady hit the floor with both feet as I had departed, but paused not for him.
The vibration of the boat, which suddenly increased, told me that full speed was being made.
I crawled out on deck, just in time to come foul of several struggling men. One of them broke free, went over the rail, and struck with a splash. His head came up into the moonlight. Rising, I caught sight of Yu standing at the rail, pistol in hand, and called to him; he shot while I was calling, and to the report, the swimming man vanished.
Glancing around, I saw that the steward and crew were in sight. Yu turned to me and smiled thinly under his stubble of beard.
“A Jap,” he said briefly. “Stowaway,”
“Then he was the fellow in the cabin! I heard him and woke up—”
“Boarders away!” sang out the voice of O’Grady, behind me. “What’s up?”
For answer, Yu lifted his arm and pointed. Then I saw what until now I had overlooked in the swiftness of things.
We were in midstream, shooting rapidly through the water, which lay like a wide silvern flood in the light of the high moon. Two hundred yards to our right, heading as though to meet us at a convergent angle, was another craft—a gasoline launch, to judge from the sound of her exhaust. From either bow was thrown up and back a curving wave of water, which indicated her speed, half hiding her from view.
While we stared, a flash leaped out amidships of her, and I caught the whine of a bullet close overhead. O’Grady ducked, then laughed.
“More o’ your pleasant friends, Breck? Faith, we’re not goin’ to be lonely, at all events. Who is she, or what?”
I repeated the question to Yu. He snapped an order at the steward, who vanished, then turned to me with a warning gesture.
“A police boat, bribed by Schneider to halt us, and she has the speed of us. Fortunately, I know these boats very well; I think I can stop her. Will you gentlemen kindly lie down? I believe they will shoot again.”
At another order from him, the speed of the launch slowed a bit, and Yu stretched out on the afterdeck. The steward appeared and put a rifle into his hand. A moment later, he fired. To the crack, O’Grady caught my arm excitedly as we crouched.
“Breck, ’pon my word, the beggar’s usin’ explosive bullets! If he hits her petrol tank, what price we’re hung for piracy?”
“You never heard of a newspaper man getting hung for anything,” I said.
“Oh!” and he chuckled at that, “But I’m no journalist, me lad; I’m an Irishman. And ye never heard of an Irishman bein’ drowned that was born to be hung! But I’m with ye, hanging or no hanging. Wish that boy o’ yours ’ud give me a try with that rifle!”
Indeed, Yu had taken two shots, seemingly without result. I left O’Grady, and crawled aft behind Yu, and perceived that he was aiming at the very bow of the other craft. He no doubt knew that her gasoline tank was there.
Meantime, bullets were driving about us, and now there came a tremendous bang, and a one-pounder shell screeched overhead. If that police craft had carried a machine gun instead of one designed to sink pirates, we could not have lasted. She was converging every moment, and now was not a hundred yards distant.
Then Yu fired for the third time.
I saw him lay down the rifle and come up, squatting. Then a red sheet of flame leaped from the water, and we reeled under the blast of the concussion. When the following blackness passed, I saw Yu still squatting there, and we were still heading upstream. I leaped up.
“Head back and pick ’em up!” I shouted to the helmsman in the stern.
He made no motion to obey. O’Grady joined me, with a shout, and then we found Yu suddenly erect before us, hand outstretched.
“Master,” he said, “men who take bribes deserve what happens. Besides, you are in my charge. Until you are set ashore, my orders are obeyed, not yours. Then I serve you without protest, with perfect obedience! But meantime, leave things to me.”
To protests, oaths, orders, he was absolutely impervious; so were his men. Except by actual force, we could do nothing. When we realized this, we were a mile distant from the scene of the fight, and the police boat must have gone down like a shot. At length O’Grady laughed and turned away.
“Never mind,