saved him the trouble of asking. Tippling pubs where stewards
foregathered.

His uniform was his passport. Nobody questioned him as he passed the
barrier at a dog-trot. Outside the smelly pier (sugar, coffee and
spices, shipments from Killigrew and Company) he paused to send a short
prayer to heaven. Then he approached a snoozing stevedore.

"Where's Mike's?"

"Lead y' there, ol' scout!"

"No; tell me where it is. Here's a shilling."

Explicit directions followed; and away went Thomas at a dog-trot again:
the lust to punish, maim or kill in his heart. He was not a university
man; he had not played cricket at Lord's or stroked the crew from
Leander; but he was island-born, a chap for cold tubbings, calisthenics
and long tramps into the country on pleasant Sundays. Thomas was
slender, but sound and hard.

Jameson was not at Mike's nor at Johnny's; but there were dozens of
other saloons. He did not ask questions. He went in, searched, and
strode out. In the lowest kind of a drinking dive he found his man. A
great wave of dizziness swept over Thomas. When it passed, only the
bandannaed smuggler remained, cautious, cunning, patient.

The quarry was alone in a side-room, drinking gin and smiling to
himself. For an hour Thomas waited. His palms became damp with cold
sweat and his knees wabbled, but not in fear. Four glasses of ale,