gun and ran to that one, but not before a rapid scramble near the
railing was followed by a cautious opening of the door. She was
just in time to shut it on the extended arm and light blue sleeve
of an army overcoat that protruded through the opening, and for a
moment threw her whole weight against it.

"A dhrop of whiskey, Miss, for the love of God."

She retained her hold, cocked her weapon, and stepped back a pace
from the door. The blue sleeve was followed by the rest of the
overcoat, and a blue cap with the infantry blazoning, and the
letter H on its peak. They were for the moment more
distinguishable than the man beneath them--grimed and blackened
with the slime of the Marsh. But what could be seen of his mud-
stained face was more grotesque than terrifying. A combination of
weakness and audacity, insinuation and timidity struggled through
the dirt for expression. His small blue eyes were not ill-natured,
and even the intruding arm trembled more from exhaustion than
passion.

"On'y a dhrop, Miss," he repeated piteously, "and av ye pleeze,
quick! afore I'm stharved with the cold entoirely."

She looked at him intently--without lowering her gun.

"Who are you?"

"Thin, it's the truth I'll tell ye, Miss--whisth then!" he said in
a half-whisper; "I'm a desarter!"