"They don't keep things to eat here!" exclaimed Hamilton, scarcely able
to breathe the foul air and the exhalations from decaying food-stuffs.
"Sure," the reporter answered. "Cheerful, isn't it?"
Hamilton gave a little shiver of repugnance, but taking out his
schedule, asked the underground store-keeper all the personal questions
on it. Then, realizing that he would be able to know about his
customers, the lad quickly made enough inquiries to assure him that
there was no fault to find with the work, and started for the upper air.
Just as they passed out of the stairway, the policeman, who was the
last, still being on the steps, Hamilton heard a shot, and a bullet came
whizzing by his head. It was answered by a fusillade of shots.
The boy's first instinct was to duck back under the cover of the
staircase from which he had just come out, but the policeman, as he
left it, roughly gave him a push, as much as to say, "Keep out of
there," and started on a dead run for the group where the firing was
going on.
"That's the Hip Sings," the reporter said, pulling Hamilton into the
shadow of a doorway, "the Ong Leongs have been waiting for them, ever
since that affair in the theater.
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