I thought Stires
could look out for himself, so long as it was just Ching Po. It was the
triangular mix-up I was afraid of; even though I providentially had
Follet's pistol. And, for that matter, where was Follet? Had he given up
the chase? Gone home for that drink, probably.
But in that I had done him injustice; for in a few moments he debouched
from yet a third approach. Ching Po had evidently doubled, somehow, and
baffled him.
I rose to meet him, and he slowed down to take me on. By this time the
peaceful water front had absorbed the Chinaman; and if Stires was at
home, the two were face to face. I made this known to Follet.
"Give me back my pistol," he panted.
"Not on your life," I said, and jammed it well into my pocket.
"What in hell have you got to do with it?" he snarled.
"Stires is a friend of mine." I spoke with some difficulty, for though
we were not running, we were hitting up a quick pace. Follet was all
colors of the rainbow, and I looked for him to give out presently, but
he kept on.
"Ching Po, too?" he sneered.
"Not a bit of it. But they won't stand for murder in open daylight--even
_your_ friends."
We were very near Stires's place by this time. There was no sign of any
one in the yard; it was inhabited solely by the familiar rusty monsters
of Stires's trade.
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