Three tiers of bunks of hardwood were built along the walls. There
was no glamour here; all was sordid. Several Chinamen in various
stages of dazed indolence were jabbering in incoherent oblivion, a
state I suppose of "Oriental calm."
There, in a bunk, lay Clendenin. His slow and uncertain breathing
told of his being under the influence of the drug, and he lay on
his back beside a "layout" with a half-cooked pill still in the
bowl of his pipe.
The question was to wake him up. Craig began slapping him with a
wet towel, directing us how to keep him roused. We walked him
about, up and down, dazed, less than half sensible, dreaming,
muttering, raving.
A hasty exclamation from O'Connor followed as he drew from the
scant cushions of the bunk a long-barreled pistol, a .44 such as
the tong leaders used, the same make as had shot Bertha Curtis and
Nichi. Craig seized it and stuck it into his pocket.
All the gamblers had fled, all except those too drugged to escape.
Where they had gone was indicated by a door leading up to the
kitchen of the restaurant.
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