CHAPTER II

SHANGHAIED

WHEN Billy opened his eyes again he could not recall, for
the instant, very much of his recent past. At last he remembered
with painful regret the drunken sailor it had been his
intention to roll. He felt deeply chagrined that his rightful
prey should have escaped him. He couldn't understand how
it had happened.

"This Frisco booze must be something fierce," thought
Billy.

His head ached frightfully and he was very sick. So sick
that the room in which he lay seemed to be rising and falling
in a horribly realistic manner. Every time it dropped it
brought Billy's stomach nearly to his mouth.

Billy shut his eyes. Still the awful sensation. Billy groaned.
He never had been so sick in all his life before, and, my, how
his poor head did hurt. Finding that it only seemed to make
matters worse when he closed his eyes Billy opened them
again.

He looked about the room in which he lay. He found it a
stuffy hole filled with bunks in tiers three deep around the
sides. In the center of the room was a table. Above the table a
lamp hung suspended from one of the wooden beams of the
ceiling.