The Call of the Wild: Klondike Cannibals, Vol. 2 by Herbert Ashe Page B

whisking them down a steep staircase and through a set of double-doors into a saloon, thick with blue cigar smoke, where a dozen rough-looking gangsters sat around a large table, playing poker.
    Jack immediately recognized the man with the bowler hat from the carriage, and the three young wolves that came at him yesterday, seated around the table. He was surprised to see Annie’s prim and proper aunt, dressed now like a Parisian whore, sitting on one of the men’s laps.
    “Welcome !” the man in the bowler hat called out in a rich Southern drawl. “Most welcome!”
    To Jack’s surprise, Annie crossed directly over to the man, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Lindy!” She turned to look at Jack. “This… was the one from yesterday I told you about…”
    The man in the bowler hat put his cards face down on the table. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The hero.” He stood up and walked over.
    “ Merritt Lind,” he said, extending his hand.
    A bout forty-five years old, Merritt looked energetic. His black hair was streaked with grey at his temples, and he sported a small and elegant salt and pepper moustache. His eyes were gray, hawk-like, full of intelligence. The cool intellect hinted at in his eyes was warmed in no small degree by the mischievous smile that periodically played across his thin lips.
    “ Jack London.”
    They shook hands.
    “A most memorable name! How fortunate for you.”
    Then Merritt noticed the boy at Dr. Fiddler’s side. “And who is the little Chinaman?” he asked.
    The boy didn’t say anything: he just stared stonily down at his feet.
    When the gangsters took notice of the boy, Ja ck heard a low mutter go round the table. Anti-Chinese feeling had been running high for years, and that was before the recent outbreak of the plague…
    “He is my servant ,” Jack blurted out.
    He didn’t know why he did it. Not really.
    Perhaps i t was a reflex from his old tramping days when he’d have to invent stories on the spot to beg himself a hot meal, or talk his way out of a tight fix. In troubled times, it paid for tramps to stick together. You never knew when the man at your side would repay the favour.
    “What I mean to say,” Jack continued earnestly, “is that Bao has worked for my family for many years. When his older sister died of consumption last year his care passed to me…”
    Jack was a good talker: he was through and through what the road kids called “profesh.” He could instantly concoct a story with the ring of truth to it. He had a fluid soul that could fill vessels of any shape: he got along just as easily with librarians as with sailors.
    Jack used that skill now, inventing a hundred details about the boy’s backstory as he started recounting the sad story of his sister’s tragic illness, and the family’s hopes for the boy’s education. In Jack’s telling, he’d told Bao to wait on shore while he’d snuck aboard the Argo , but the boy had disobeyed and followed him anyway, out of an excess of loyalty.
    Merritt held up his hand at this. “You intrigue me Jack,” he said. “But I know a bullshitter when I see one.”
    Jack held steady, returning his gaze. “Likewise,” he said.
    A murmur of surprise went round the poker table. Jack k new challenging Merritt like this in front of his gang was dangerous, crazy even.
    But at least he was committed to a course of action. There would be no backing down now. He boldly returned Merritt’s gaze.
    “Ha! ” Merritt said after a moment. He took another puff of his cigar. “I like your grit, boy!”
    “I hate to interrupt,” Dr. Fiddler said. His eyes were icy blue, cold as night. There was something of the infinity of space in them. “But perhaps Miss O’Quinn can help us understand this breach in our security.” He turned to Annie. “Just how did you happen to find our friend Jack here running around on deck half-naked?”
    It was as if Dr. Fiddler was intentionally trying to make Merritt jealous.
    Whether he