up!” invited Hopalong, waving them forward. “Might as well do things right or not at all. Them's my sentiments, which I holds as proper. Plain rye, general, if you means me,” he replied to the bartender's look of inquiry.
He drained the glass and then made a grimace. “Tastes a little off—reckon it's my mouth; nothing tastes right in this cussed town. Now, up on our—” He stopped and caught at the bar. “Holy smoke! That's shore alcohol!”
Johnny was relaxing and vainly trying to command his will power. “Something's wrong; what's the matter?” he muttered sleepily.
“Guess you meant beer; you ain't used to drinking whiskey,” grinned the bartender, derisively, and watching him closely.
“I can—drink as much whiskey as—” and, muttering, Johnny slipped to the floor.
“That wasn't whiskey!” cried Hopalong, sleepily, “that liquor was fixed!” he shouted, sudden anger bracing him. “An' I'm going to fix you, too!” he added, reaching for his gun, and drawing forth a wedge. His sailor friend leaped at him, to go down like a log, and Hopalong, seething with rage, wheeled and threw the weapon at the man behind the bar, who also went down. The wedge, glancing from his skull, swept a row of bottles and glasses from the shelf and, caroming, went through the window.
In an instant Hopalong was the vortex of a mass of struggling men and, handicapped as he was, fought valiantly, his rage for the time neutralizing the effects of the drug. But at last, too sleepy to stand or think, he, too, went down.
“By the Lord, that man's a fighter!” enthusiastically remarked the leader, gently touching his swollen eye. “George must 'a' put an awful dose in that grog.”
“Lucky for us he didn't have no gun—the wedge was bad enough,” groaned a man on the floor, slowly sitting up. “Whoever swapped him that wedge for his gun did us a good turn, all right.”
A companion tentatively readjusted his lip. “I don't envy Wilkins his job breaking in that man when he gets awake.”
“Don't waste no time, mates,” came the order. “Up with 'em an' aboard. We've done our share; let the mate do his, an' be hanged. Hullo, Portsmouth; coming around, eh?” he asked the man who had first felt the wedge. “I was scared you was done for that time.”
“No more shanghaiing hair pants for me, no more!” thickly replied Portsmouth. “Oh, my head, it's bust open!”
“Never mind about the bartender—let him alone; we can't waste no time with him now!” commanded the leader sharply. “Get these fellers on board before we're caught with 'em. We want our money after that.”
“All clear!” came a low call from the lookout at the door, and soon a shadowy mass surged across the street and along a wharf. There was a short pause as a boat emerged out of the gloom, some whispered orders, and then the squeaking of oars grew steadily fainter in the direction of a ship which lay indistinct in the darkness.
CHAPTER II
THE REBOUND
A man moaned and stirred restlessly in a bunk, muttering incoherently. A stampeded herd was thundering over him, the grinding hoofs beating him slowly to death. He saw one mad steer stop and lower its head to gore him and just as the sharp horns touched his skin, he awakened. Slowly opening his bloodshot eyes he squinted about him, sick, weak, racking with pain where heavy shoes had struck him in the melee, his head reverberating with roars which seemed almost to split it open. Slowly he regained his full senses and began to make out his surroundings. He was in a bunk which moved up and down, from side to side, and was never still. There was a small, round window near his feet—thank heaven it was open, for he was almost suffocated by the foul air and the heat. Where was he? What had happened? Was there a salty odor in the air, or was he still dreaming? Painfully raising himself on one elbow he looked around and caught sight of a man in the bunk across. It was Johnny Nelson! Then, bit by bit, the whole thing came to him and he cursed heartily as he reviewed it and reached the only possible conclusion. He was at sea! He, Hopalong Cassidy, the best fighting unit of a good fighting outfit, shanghaied and at sea! Drugged, beaten, and stolen to labor on a ship.
Johnny was muttering and moaning and Hopalong slowly climbed out of the narrow bunk, unsteadily crossed the moving floor, and shook him. “Reckon he's in a stampede, too!” he growled. “They shore raised h—l with us. Oh, what a beating we got! But we'll pass it along with trimmings.”
Johnny's eyes opened and he looked around in confusion. “Wha', Hopalong!”
“Yes; it's me, the prize idiot of a blamed good pair of 'em. How'd you feel?”
“Sleepy an' sick. My eyes ache an' my head's splitting. Where's Buck an' the rest?”
Hopalong sat down on the edge of the bunk and sore luridly, eloquently, beautifully, with a fervor and polish which left nothing to be desired in that line, and caused his companion to gaze at him in astonishment.
“I had a mighty bad dream, but you must 'a' had one a whole lot worse, to listen to you,” Johnny remarked. “Gee, you're going some! What's the matter with you. You sick, too?”
Thereupon Hopalong unfolded the tale of woe and when Johnny had grasped its import and knew that his dream had been a stern reality, he straightway loosed his vocabulary and earned a draw. “Well, I'm going back again,” he finished, with great decision, arising to make good his assertion.
“Swim or walk?” asked Hopalong nonchalantly.
“Huh! Oh, Lord!”
“Well, I ain't going to either swim or walk,” Hopalong soliloquized. “I'm just going to stay right here in this one-by-nothing cellar an' spoil the health an' good looks of any pirate that comes down that ladder to get me out.” He looked around, interested in life once more, and his trained eye grasped the strategic worth of their position. “Only one at a time, an' down that ladder,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Why, Johnny, we owns this range as long as we wants to. They can't get us out. But, say, if only we had our guns!” he sighed, regretfully.
“You're right as far as you go; but you don't go to the eating part. We'll starve, an' we ain't got no water. I can drink about a bucketful right now,” moodily replied his companion.
“Well, yo're right; but mebby we can find food an' water.”
“Don't see no signs of none. Hey!” Johnny exclaimed, smiling faintly in his misery. “Let's get busy an' burn the cussed thing up! Got any matches?”
“First you want to drown yoreself swimming, an' now you want to roast the pair of us to death,” Hopalong retorted, eyeing the rear wall of the room. “Wonder what's on the other side of that partition?”
Johnny looked. “Why, water; an' lots of it, too.”
“Naw; the water is on the other sides.”
“Then
