He slipped across the room, silent and cavern-like, its blackness
broken by the window squares of starry sky, till he felt the paucity
of glassware behind the bar.

"Here's to Her," It burned delightfully.

"Here's to the groom." It tingled more alluringly.

"I'll drink what I can, and get back to the bunk before it works," he
thought, and the darkness veiled the measure of his potations.

He started at a noise on the stairway. His senses not yet dulled,
detected a stealthy tread. Not the careless step of a man unafraid,
but the cautious rustle and halt of a marauder. Every nerve bristled
to keenest alertness as the faint occasional sounds approached,
passed the open end of the bar where he crouched, leading on to the
window. Then a match flared, and the darkness rushed out as a candle
wick sputtered.

Shorty stretched on tiptoe, brought his eye to the level of the bar,
and gazed upon the horrent head of Bailey. He sighed thankfully, but
watched with interest his strange behaviour.

Bailey moved the light across the window from left to right three
times, paused, then wigwagged some code out into the night.

"He's signalling," mused Shorty. "Hope he gets through quick. I'm
getting full." The fumes of the liquor were beating at his senses,
and he knew that soon he would move with difficulty.