An',' s'ys he, 'I demand the protection o' the authorities an'
arsk to be directed to the American consul.'
"S'y, we never wyted to hear no more, but hyked awye hot foot. S'y, wot
all now. Oh, mee Gord! eyen't it a rum gao for fair? S'y, let's get
aout o' here, Hardy, dear."
"Look there," said Hardenberg, jerking his head toward the cutter, "how
far'd we get before the customs would 'a' passed the tip to _her_ and
she'd started to overhaul us? That's what they feed her for--to round up
the likes o' us."
"We got to do something rather soon," put in Strokher. "Here comes the
custom house dinghy now."
As a matter of fact, a boat was putting off from the dock. At her stern
fluttered the custom house flag.
"Bitched--bitched for fair!" cried Ally Bazan.
[Illustration: "'ERE'S 'ELL TO PAY!"
From a drawing by Lucius Hitchcock _Courtesy of Collier's Weekly_.]
"Quick, now!" exclaimed Hardenberg. "On the jump! Overboard with that
loot!--or no. Steady! That won't do. There's that dam' cutter. They'd
see it go. Here!--into the galley. There's a fire in the stove. Get a
move on!"
"Wot!" wailed Ally Bazan. "Burn the little joker. Gord, I _can't,_
Hardy, I _can't._ It's agin human nature."
"You can do time in San Quentin, then, for felony," retorted Strokher as
he and Hardenberg dashed by him, their arms full of the skins. "You can
do time in San Quentin else. Make your choice.
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