Burdens of all sizes and of infinite variety
swept by on swaying shoulder yokes.
Benito's guide paused momentarily on the farther side of Dupont street.
Then, with a beckoning gesture, he dived into a narrow alley. Benito,
following, found himself before the entrance of a cellarway. As he
halted, iron trapdoors opened toward him, revealing a short flight of
steps. The Chinese motioned him to descend, but the lawyer hesitated
with a sudden sense of trepidation. Beneath the pavement in this
cul-de-sac of Chinatown, he would be hidden from the world, from friends
or rescue, as securely as though he were at the bottom of the bay.
But he squared his shoulders and went down. A door opened noiselessly
and closed, leaving him in total darkness. A lantern glimmered and he
followed it along a narrow passage that had many unexpected turns. An
odor, pungent, acrid, semi-aromatic troubled his nostrils. It increased
until the lantern-bearing Chinese ushered him into a large square room,
lined with bunks, three-deep, like the forecastle of a ship. In each lay
two Chinese, face to face. They drew at intervals deep inhalations from
a thick bamboo pipe, relaxing, thereupon into a sort of stupored dream.
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