Henry Leverage

“ Abie waited at the shore end of Meigg’s wharf for the mate to return from the whaler Bowhead. He had done remarkably well in the matter of getting Captain Gully a crew. There remained one more man to secure. The crimp had his pride. He had promised six.
The rain was a dampener to his hopes of getting this man. It would be useless to send out anybody except one who feared the law more than a whaling voyage.
Yetsky, Angel Face, Hong Kee and the two coolies would sign any paper at midnight. They did not need to be urged to leave San Francisco. ”

“ Men of any kind were scarce in San Francisco. Cargoes rotted in ships’ holds while the wages of ordinary seamen mounted to impossible heights.
The Bowhead was ready to steam for the Arctic and Bering Sea whaling grounds. Her boat-steerers, harpooners, mates, engineers, and twelve of a crew were aboard. Captain Gully dared not cat the anchor without eighteen men before the mast. He needed six more hands in the fo’c’s’le.
“Hansen,” he told his first mate, “lower the dingey and go to the Blubber Room on East Street. Ask for Abie Kelly. Bring Abie out with you.”
“The crimp?” ”

“ He was supposed to be Keenon, a detective.
“We’ll try for a big haul,” he told the faithful mate. “We’ll break in where men are making money.”
The method pursued by the crimp to find the location of the coiners he had in mind was an involved detour which took all of an hour of precious time.
Mother Kelly, on duty as barmaid at the Blubber Room, supplied the necessary information. The Yetsky Wop, who had fortunately tried to pass a smooth two-bit piece on Abie’s mother the day before, had never met Abie. His address was on Lower Mission Street, between a Chinese laundry and a ship’s outfitter. ”

“ Abie paused a suggestive minute. He stared around the rapidly emptying mission room.
“There’s a man dyin’ out in th’ fo’c’s’le of th’ whaler Bowhead, preacher. He ain’t got nobody to pray for him. His name is Yetsky. He was hit by a Chink. He’ll die and they’ll throw him overboard to th’ fishes.”
Holy Joe, as Abie the Crimp expected, became interested.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, glancing at his flock going out the door.
“No! It’s life or death, preacher. The Yetsky Wop—”
“The Yetsky Wop?” ”

“ Hansen glanced at him.
“Abie,” said Holy Joe in a low voice, “I’m not pleased with that whisky.”
“Oh, it’s all right, preacher. You know we make it in the cellar. We got a private still. You see, me being a government man allows us to do it.”
“It was bitter, Abie.”
The crimp realized that he would have to be careful if he wanted to deliver Captain Gully’s last man. Holy Joe was apparently going under. There was a quarter-knot to be rowed before the Bowhead could be boarded.
“What’s the matter, preacher?” he asked. “Are you prayin’?”
“I’m thinking, Abie, of what you told me about Yetsky Wop. ”