't such a thing in the house. Come in and look," I
snapped. And the two of them went back to the kitchen.

"Now," said Mr. Graves, when I had shut the door, "where's the
dog's-meat man?"

"Up-stairs."

"Bring him quietly."

I called Mr. Holcombe, and he came eagerly, note-book and all. "Ah!"
he said, when he saw Tim. "So you've turned up!"

"Yes, sir."

"It seems, Mr. Dog's--Mr. Holcombe," said Mr. Graves, "that you are
right, partly, anyhow. Tim here _did_ help a man with a boat that
night--"

"Threw him a rope, sir," Tim broke in. "He'd got out in the current,
and what with the ice, and his not knowing much about a boat, he'd
have kept on to New Orleans if I hadn't caught him--or Kingdom Come."

"Exactly. And what time did you say this was?"

"Between three and four last Sunday night--or Monday morning. He said
he couldn't sleep and went out in a boat, meaning to keep in close to
shore. But he got drawn out in the current."

"Where did you see him first?"

"By the Ninth Street bridge."

"Did you hail him?"

"He saw my light and hailed me. I was making fast to a coal barge
after one of my ropes had busted."

"You threw the line to him there?"

"No, sir. He tried to work in to shore. I ran along River Avenue to
below the Sixth Street bridge. He got pretty close in there and I
threw him a rope. He was about done up."

"Would you know him again?"

"Yes, sir. He gave me five dollars, and said to say nothing about it.
He didn't want anybody to know he had been such a fool."

They took him quietly up stairs then and let him look through the
periscope. _He identified Mr. Ladley absolutely_.

When Tim and Mr. Graves had gone, Mr. Holcombe and I were left alone
in the kitchen. Mr. Holcombe leaned over and patted Peter as he lay in
his basket.

"We've got him, old boy," he said. "The chain is just about complete.
He'll never kick you again."

But Mr. Holcombe was wrong, not about kicking Peter,--although I don't
believe Mr. Ladley ever did that again,--but in thinking we had him.

I washed that next morning, Monday, but all the time I was rubbing and
starching and hanging out, my mind was with Jennie Brice. The sight of
Molly Maguire, next door, at the window, rubbing and brushing at the
fur coat, only made things worse.

At noon when the Maguire youngsters came home from school, I bribed
Tommy, the youngest, into the kitchen, with the promise of a doughnut.

"I see your mother has a new fur coat