By the time Johnny had left the den of Wo Cheng, night had come down upon the city. It was by the light of a golden moon that he saw the balloon hanging in the sky. The balloon, however, interested him little. He was thinking only of Mazie. He had decided to make his way to a corner of the city occupied by Japanese people of doubtful character. To do this he must leave the street he was in and, after turning to his right, go straight ahead for ten blocks.

He was not long in discovering that the carrying out of his plans would put him in the greatest danger. The cross-street was jammed with Russians who fled from the raking fire of machine guns set somewhere at the head of that street. Johnny could still hear their rat-tat and the sing of bullets. Men, women and children ran through the street. An aged peasant woman, her face streaming with blood, toppled toward him, then fell. He sprang to assist her, but two of her own people came to her aid.

“What’s the rumpus?” He hazarded the question in English.

“Nobody knows,” said a clean-faced young Russian. “It’s the Japs shooting. Can’t tell why. Probably just nervous. Nothing was done against them, though St. Christopher knows it’s plenty we’d like to do. They want this peninsula, and if keeping us fighting among ourselves will give it to them, they’ll win it.”

“I’ve seen their spies two thousand miles from the last sign of civilization.”

“They are everywhere, like fleas.”

“I’ve got to get at some of them. Think they kidnapped a friend of mine,” said Johnny. “But how can I get past this?”

“I know a closed private alley. Want to try that?”

“I’ll try anything.”

“Come.”

The man led the way half the distance back to Wo Cheng’s door, then suddenly opened a door in a wall.

“See. Through there.”

He closed the door behind Johnny. Johnny looked about. Straight on before him lay a path, to the right of which was a garden. At the end of the path was another door.

“Must open on another street,” he muttered to himself. “Touchy sort of business this prowling through a strange city at night with a big row on foot. Can’t be helped though.”

He reached the door only to find it locked. The wall was not high. A gnarled pear tree offered him a lift to the top. He had soon scaled it, and was looking up and down the narrow street that ran on the other side.

“Not a soul in sight,” he whispered.

He listened for a second. The rattle of machine-gun fire had ceased. Now and again there came the crack of a rifle or automatic.

Johnny slipped off the wall. His feet had hardly touched ground when a shot rang out and a bullet sang past him. Dodging into the deep-set doorway, he whipped out his automatic and waited. Footsteps were approaching.

“Jig’s up,” he muttered. “Worse luck for it!”

His hands fumbled at the door. In a second there came a dull thud on the other side of it. He had pushed his automatic through a latch-string opening.

“No use getting caught armed,” was his mental comment.

In another moment the Japanese military police were upon him. In vain he told them that he was an American, in vain presented his papers. They had seen him climb over the wall; that was enough. Many Russian radicals spoke English very well, and, as for papers, they could be forged. Besides, were there not many American radicals, soldiers of fortune, here assisting in the attempt to overthrow their rule. He should go to prison at once, and “To-morrow!” There was something so sinister about the way they said that “to-morrow” that it sent the cold chills racing down his spine.

Down one narrow street, then another and another they went until, eventually, they came to a frowning stone-wall with an iron-grating set deep in an arched ante-room. Through this doorway he was thrust and the lock clanged behind him.

He was not alone. He had hardly taken a step before he stumbled upon a prone form. Many men and some women were sprawled about on the stone floor.

“Amerikaner,” came in a shrill whisper. “Lie down here.”

Johnny obeyed.

“Got you, did they,” said the voice with a Russian accent.

“Yes, and for what?” said Johnny.

“In this land we do not ask for what. It is enough that we are got.”

“What’s to-morrow?” asked Johnny suddenly.

“To-morrow we will be shot.”

“That’s cheerful,” said Johnny. “What time?”

“Before dawn.”

“That’s rotten soon,” said Johnny. “I don’t think I’ll stay to see it.”

“I guess you will,” said the stranger.

There seemed nothing more to be said, so the two new-found friends lay there in silence. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Johnny’s were mostly of Mazie and of the thousands of starving children they had hoped to aid.

“It’s sure rotten luck,” he ejaculated at last.

Just at that moment the great iron gate was heard to creak on its hinges. Other wretches were being pitched inside to await their doom.

The door was so deeply set in the wall that nothing could be seen of the newly arrived prisoners.

As Johnny lay wondering what they were like, he heard a shrill whisper:

“Johnny! Johnny Thompson!”

“Here!” he whispered back.

There were sounds of a person crawling toward him, the curse of a Russian who had been disturbed in what was probably his last sleep; then Johnny’s lips uttered a low exclamation. He had caught the dull gleam of a golden ball of fire.

“Pant,” he murmured.

“It’s me, Johnny.” The boy’s hand touched him.

Johnny was dumfounded. “How’d they get you?”

“Beaned one of them cops, I did. Saw ’em glom onto you. Wanted t’ horn in with you.”

“Guess you horned in once too often,” said Johnny huskily. “This is a death-watch we’re keeping, and it’s for ourselves.”

“We better blow the coop then.”

“If we can.”

“We can.” Pant’s tone was decided and convincing.

For some time after that the two boys spoke of their experiences since last they met.

“You see, I got it cached out yonder three hills and a hike outside this burg. She’ll tip the beam at a century weight and a half, maybe more. All pure gold, you bet. And it’s all for the little Russian kids, every bit. I ain’t held back a copper.”

Johnny, knowing that Pant was speaking of the gold he had taken from Mine No. 3 and had sledded nearly three thousand miles to Vladivostok at risk of his life, could only grip his hand and swallow hard.

“Gee!” said Pant, when Johnny had finished his story. “We’ll have to find that Mazie of yours, and quick. But we’ve got to get out of here first.”

He was ready with his plans after a moment’s thought. Prisoners were being brought in every ten or fifteen minutes. There were no lights in the prison and the military police carried none. The place was pitch dark. He did not say that he could see well enough, but, from past experiences, Johnny knew that he could. They would creep close to the iron gate and, when it was opened to admit others, they would crawl out on hands and knees.

“And if luck’s bad, then this,” said Pant, slipping a small dagger into Johnny’s hand.

“You got one, too?”

“Sure.”

“All right.”

They crept close to the gate and waited. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes of dreadful silence went by with never an approaching footstep. Johnny’s heart beat painfully. What if the last poor victim had been brought to await his doom? Dawn would be breaking, and then the firing squad. Cold perspiration beaded his forehead.

But hold! there came again the shuffle of feet. A lone prisoner was being brought in.

“Now!” came in a faint whisper. A steady hand gripped his arm. He felt himself led forward. A foot scraped his knee. It was the incoming prisoner. He uttered no sound.

They were now on the outside of the gate. Flattening themselves against the wall, not daring to breathe, they waited.

Turning, the police clicked their heels and marched away. Outside, before the open anteway, marched a solitary guard. Once they were past him, they were safe.

Fortune favored them. The man hazarded a moment off duty to step into a door for a cup of coffee. In that moment, they were away.

“Easy,” said Pant. “Should have brought your friend, the Roosian.”

“He wouldn’t come,” said Johnny sorrowfully. “Said it wasn’t any use.”

“All we got to do’s keep hid till mornin’.”

They escaped from the alley through a gate into a garden, and there, in a shed against the side of a brick building, they waited for the morning.

As they lay there half awake, there came to Johnny’s ears the words of a ridiculous popular song of other days:

“Sounds like Mazie,” whispered Johnny, starting to his feet. “It is Mazie. They’ve got her hid up there!”

Pant pulled him back to earth. “If it’s Mazie, they’ve got men watchin’. No good to spill the beans. To-morrow night we’ll make up a bunch an’ git ’em.”

Realizing the wisdom of these words, Johnny quieted his mad desire to rush the place at once, and sat down.

Just as the first red streaks striped the sky, there came a loud volley of shots.

Johnny plugged his ears and shivered. Perhaps they were executing the prisoners. Who could tell?