tolerantly.

“You can’t expect me to sympathize with you very much,” he said. “Well, now, which shall it be? The theatre or a prowl around Chinatown?”

Chinatown? In a moment the pessimism of the boys vanished. They were all smiles.

“Chinatown by all means,” said Jack, emphatically.

“Righto,” agreed Bob.

“With its opium dens and hatchet men and gambling clubs and all,” declared Frank.

“Oh, it isn’t what it used to be,” deprecated Mr. Temple. “I understand Chinatown is quite civilized now. Nevertheless, I expect we shall find much to interest us. I’ll speak to the head waiter. Probably he can direct us to a guide.”

On being consulted, the head waiter agreed to obtain them a guide. Presently, the boys and Mr. Temple were on their way by auto to the unique city within a city which constitutes San Francisco’s Chinatown, a quarter housing more than 30,000 Chinese. Oriental in every characteristic, with narrow alleys and courts, cellars, sub-cellars and sub-sub-cellars, the dragon roofs of Chinatown lie just below Nob Hill, the old aristocratic quarter of San Francisco with its veritable palaces of stone. From the terraces of the latter, one can look down into the alleys of Chinatown. So close neighbors are these two opposite districts of the city by the Golden Gate.

At the corner of Grant (once called Dupont) and California Streets, the guide halted their car and the party alighted. The boys looked around them with delight. In every direction were houses and stores speaking of the Orient. Close at hand on one corner

was a Catholic church, one of the landmarks of the district. On another corner was a restaurant from which came strange Chinese music.

Up the California Street hill droned a strange little cable car, its sides open and passengers facing outward. Below, clear in the moonlight, lay the Bay with a lighted ferryboat making the crossing.

While the boys were drinking it all in, and staring owl-eyed at the slippered Chinamen in baggy pants and blouses shuffling past, their guide was in converse with a stranger. Now he approached Mr. Temple and touched his cap.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, “but this is where I leave you. I’ll turn you over to this man.”

Mr. Temple regarded him sharply, then looked at the other.

“Isn’t that a bit unusual?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said the original guide, “this man has certain territory here which we let him cover by agreement. When he has shown you around, you’ll find me here, sir, and I’ll continue with you. Shall I dismiss the car, sir? You’ll spend some time here, and might as well dismiss it now and get another later, rather than have it eat up fares.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Temple. “Here.” And he handed the man a bill.

Under the conduct of the new guide, the party

started down Grant Street. The original guide watched their disappearing figures several minutes, then walked over to the chauffeur at the wheel of the hired car.

“Gave me a tenner, George,” said he. “Here’s your split. I wonder what ‘Black George’ wants with ’em. Look like fruity pickin’s all right.”

“Easy, pal. Easy,” said the chauffeur, low-voiced. “What the Big Chief wants with ’em is his own business. We had our orders to pick ’em up an’ we carried ’em out. Climb in and we’ll blow.”

The other complied, and the car departed.

Meantime, midway of the next block the party had come to a halt. The new guide, a capable man of middle age with a twinkling eye turned to Mr. Temple.

“Now, sir,” he said, “just what would you like to see?”

“Nothing rough,” said Mr. Temple hastily, looking at the boys. “Just show us the usual tourist places.”

“Oh, Father,” protested Bob, aggrievedly. “We want to see the sights.”

“The young man wants some excitement,” said the guide, slyly. “Well, maybe we can show him a thing or two.”

Mr. Temple did not like the man’s tone. Nevertheless, he made no comment.

“Lead on,” he said shortly.

Flanked by Bob and his father, and followed by Jack and Frank, the guide brought them presently to the mouth of a dark alley. There he paused.

“Up here’s the Joss House,” he said. “Chinamen’s temple, you know. Follow me single file. It’s dark in this here alley, but we’ll soon be all right.”

Obediently, they fell into line behind him and stumbled along through Stygian darkness, only the dim light from the street over their shoulders. Presently, the close walls on either hand turned sharply to the right, and they emerged into a narrow courtyard. It was so dark their surroundings could only be guessed at.

“Look here, my man,” said Mr. Temple, “I went to a Joss House in Chinatown once years ago, and I don’t seem to remember this route.”

“It’s all right,” said the guide. “The place is just ahead here through a door. Follow right along.”

Mr. Temple took several more steps, the boys after him, then halted again. Once more he started to protest, but at that moment the guide turned and grappled with him while a number of other shadowy forms materialized out of the darkness and closed with the boys.

The boys and Mr. Temple fought valiantly, but numbers were against them. Moreover, the attackers threw over the head of each a sack that muffled their outcries and prevented the boys and Mr. Temple from directing their blows. Taken altogether by surprise, they were quickly overcome. Then their hands were tied and they were raised to their feet, and the sacks, which were almost suffocating them, were removed.

A revolver was shoved threateningly into each face.

“Won’t do you much good to scream,” said a voice in the darkness, “but if you do, you know what you’ll get.”

There was a grim earnestness about the tone which commanded belief.

“If it’s money you want——” gasped Mr. Temple, who was breathing heavily.

“Shut up,” said his guard. “Now march.”

With two guards to each, the four prisoners were shoved along the broken cobbles of the dim courtyard until a door in a wall was reached. Through this they entered a corridor even blacker than the courtyard behind. There were no lights. One of the guards, however, threw the rays of a flashlight ahead.

An iron door barred the way. A little wicket was

opened as the flashlight played over it, and a slanting almond eye stared out unwinkingly. The man with the flashlight advanced, uttered a word in a low voice that the boys could not overhear, and then the door was opened.

Down another pitch black corridor, several turns, and the party halted before a second door. The procedure was similar to that gone through with at the first door. Again they were admitted.

All this time, shuffling along in a silence broken only by an occasional stumble or muttered curse, on the part of one of the guards, they had been descending. It seemed to the boys as if they had stumbled down so many various flights of steps that they must be in the very bowels of the earth. At last a third door was opened, and Mr. Temple and the boys were shoved ahead accompanied only by the man who had been their guide and betrayer.

They stood in a dimly lighted room of Oriental magnificence.

Two men sat at a table. One was inscrutable. He was an old Chinaman. The other wore a sinister smile. He was the man of the train—“Black George.”