o
the street.

But the squat and stubby old sailor stood little show in a foot-race
with his gaunt and sinewy adversary. It was undoubtedly Colonel
Ward's knowledge of this that now led him to make the race the test
of victory instead of depending on an interpreter over the telephone.
A little more than a block from the wharf's lane he came up with and
passed his adversary. Men running for trolley-cars and steamboats
were common enough on the busy thoroughfare, and people merely made
way for the sprinters.

But when Colonel Ward was a few lengths ahead of the Cap'n, the latter
made use of an expedient that the voiceless Colonel could not have
employed even if he had thought of it.

With all the force of his seaman's lungs he bellowed: "Stop thief!"
and pounded on behind, reiterating the cry vociferously. At first
he had the pursuit all to himself, for bystanders merely ducked to
one side. But earnest repetition compels attention, and attention
arouses interest, and interest provokes zeal. In a little while a
dozen men were chasing the Colonel, and when that gentleman went
lashing around the corner into Congress Street he--by an entirely
natural order of events--ran into a policeman, for the policeman was
running in the opposite direction to discover what all that
approaching hullabaloo was about.

Cap'n Sproul, prudently on the outskirts of the gathering crowd,
noted with rising hope that the policeman and the Colonel were
rolling over each other on the ground, and that even when officious
hands had separated them the facial contortions of the voiceless
tyrant of Smyrna were not making any favorable impression on the
offended bluecoat.

Cap'n Sproul started away for the bank at a trot. But he began to
walk when he heard the policeman shout: "Aw, there's enough of ye'r
moonkey faces at me. Yez will coome along to th' station, and talk
it on yer fingers to th' marshal!"

At the bank door the Cap'n halted, wiped his face, composed his
features, set on his cap at an entirely self-possessed angle, and
then marched in to the wicket.

"Will you have this transferred to your account, Captain Sproul?"
inquired the teller, with the deference due to a good customer.

The Cap'n anxiously bent a stubbed finger around a bar of the grating.
Sudden anxiety as to leaving the money there beset him. After his
perils and his toils he wanted to feel that cash--to realize that
he had actually cashed in that hateful check.

"I'l