In the meantime, the minutes were creeping by: 3.15, 3.20, 3.25,
3.27. Supposing Julius did not get there in time. 3.29.... Doors
were banging. Tommy felt cold waves of despair pass over him.
Then a hand fell on his shoulder.

"Here I am, son. Your British traffic beats description! Put me
wise to the crooks right away."

"That's Whittington--there, getting in now, that big dark man.
The other is the foreign chap he's talking to."

"I'm on to them. Which of the two is my bird?"

Tommy had thought out this question.

"Got any money with you?"

Julius shook his head, and Tommy's face fell.

"I guess I haven't more than three or four hundred dollars with
me at the moment," explained the American.

Tommy gave a faint whoop of relief.

"Oh, Lord, you millionaires! You don't talk the same language!
Climb aboard the lugger. Here's your ticket. Whittington's your
man."

"Me for Whittington!" said Julius darkly. The train was just