“There is only one thing to do,” said Ajax; “we must rescue The Babe.  We’ll spin a dollar to determine who goes to the city to-morrow morning.”

I nodded, for I was smelling the letter; the taint of opium was on it.

“Awful—­isn’t it?” murmured Ajax.  “Do you remember those loathsome dens in Chinatown?  And the creatures on the mats, and in the bunks!  And that missionary chap, who said how hard it was to reclaim them.  Poor Babe!”

Then we filled our pipes and smoked them slowly.  We had plenty to think about, for rescuing an opium-fiend is no easy job, and reclaiming him afterwards is as hard again.  But The Babe’s blue eyes and his pink skin—­what did they look like now?—­were pleading on his behalf, and we remembered that he had played in his school eleven, and could run a quarter-mile in fifty-eight seconds, and was always cheery and good-tempered.  The woods of the Colonies and the West are full of such Babes; and they all like to play with edged tools.

Next day we both went north.  Ajax said that two heads were better than one, and that it was not wise to trust oneself alone in the stews of San Francisco.  The police will not tell you how many white men are annually lost in those festering alleys that lie north of Kearney Street, but if you are interested in such matters, I can refer you to a certain grim-faced guide, who has spent nearly twenty years in Chinatown, and you can implicitly believe one quarter of what he says:  that quarter will strain your credulity not a little.

We walked to the address given in the letter—­a low dive—­not a stone’s-throw from one of the biggest hotels west of the Rocky Mountains.  The man behind the bar said that he knew The Babe well, that he was a perfect gentleman, and a personal friend of his.  The fellow’s glassy eyes and his grey-green skin told their own story.  A more villainous or crafty-looking scoundrel it has been my good fortune not to see.

“Where is your friend?” said Ajax.

The man behind the bar protested ignorance.  Then my brother laid a five-dollar gold piece upon the country, and repeated the question.  The man’s yellow fingers began to tremble.  Gold to him was opium, and opium held all his world and the glory thereof.

“I can’t take you to him—­now,” he muttered sullenly.

“You can,” replied Ajax, “and you must.”

The man glared at us.  Doubtless he guessed the nature of our errand, and wished to protect his friend from the interference of Philistines, Then he smiled evilly, and laughed.

“All right; come on.  I ain’t goin’ to take yer to the Palace Hotel.”

He opened the till and slipped some money into his pocket.  Then he put on a ragged overcoat, and a hat which he drew down over his eyes with a furtive jerk of his yellow fingers.  Then he went behind the bar and swallowed something; it was not whisky, but it brought a faint tinge of colour into his cheek, and seemed to stiffen his knees.