and sharp chin; the man who the moment before had been the under dog.
He was followed closely by another runner, but not his antagonist in the
street fight. This man was a Japanese; and Johnny saw to his surprise
that the Jap did not wear the uniform of the military police; in fact,
not any uniform at all.

"Evidently, that stubby Russian with the queer chin is wanted for
something," Johnny muttered. "I wonder what. Anyway, I've got his
knife."

At that he tucked the weapon beneath his squirrel-lined coat and,
dropping out of his corner, went cautiously on his way.

So eager was he to attend to other matters that the episode of the
street fight was soon forgotten. Dodging around this corner, then that,
giving a wide berth to a group of American non-coms, dashing off a hasty
salute to three Japanese officers, he at last turned up a narrow alley,
and, with a sigh of relief, gave three sharp raps, then a muffled one,
at a door half hidden in the gloom.

The door opened a crack, and a pair of squint eyes studied him
cautiously.

"Ow!" said the yellow man, opening the door wider, and then closing it
almost before Johnny could crowd himself inside.

To one coming from the outer air, the reeking atmosphere within this low
ceilinged, narrow room was stifling. There was a blend of vile odors;
opium smoke, not too ancient in origin, mixed with smells of cooking,
while an ill-defined but all-pervading odor permeated the place; such an