me an' go to bed.'

The policeman came forward, stood at the corner, and yawned; then he
slowly paced forward on his beat once more. Chippy waited twenty
minutes, but the constable persistently haunted the warehouse walls; it
was clear that they were the special object of his care to-night.

'It's old Martin,' thought Chippy, who had recognised the constable;
'he's gooin' to potter round all night. I'll get 'ome again.'

Martin disappeared round the farther angle of the walls, and Chippy
stood up to move softly away. But he did not move. He stood still
listening intently. At the moment he straightened himself he felt
certain that he heard a low chuckle somewhere behind him in the
darkness.

Yes, there was someone there. Now he caught the voices of men who
conversed together in tones little above a whisper. Chippy judged they
were some twenty yards from him. Next he heard stealthy sounds as they
moved away.

Who were these people who had crept up so silently that the scout had
heard nothing? Chippy meant to find out, if possible, and already he
had bent down, and his fingers were going like the wind as he whipped
the laces out of the eyelets of his boots. Off came the latter; off
came his stockings. The stockings went into his pockets; the boots
were tied together by their laces and slung round his neck, and away
slipped Chippy in search of the men who had laughed and whispered
together.

He had lost a few seconds in taking off his boots, and the sounds of
their stealthy movements had died away. Chippy dropped flat, and laid
his ear to the ground. This gave him their direction at once, and, to
his surprise, the sounds told him that they were going towards the
river. That was odd. The quay edge was a very dangerous place on so
dark a night as this, but these men were going down to it, and not
across towards the town, as Chippy had expected.

The scout followed with the utmost caution--a caution which he
redoubled as he drew near to the riverside. He would have thought
little of going over the quay wall when the water was up, for that
would only mean a ducking, and he could swim like a fish. But in some
places patches of deep mud were laid bare at low tide, spots in which
the finest swimmer would flounder, sink, and perish. Chippy sought for
a mooring-post, and was full of delight when his hands came against a
huge oaken bole, scored with rope-marks and polished with long service.
These stood in