"Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, good-naturedly; "he's there in
that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good night to him,
and then you'd better get to bed. This ain't no place for kids of your
age."

"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two officers
raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness.

The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging,
and backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from
every window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the
voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation.

Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with
unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like sheep,
and with no protection from the sleet and rain.

Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene until
his eyesight became familiar with the position of the land.

Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a lantern
with which an officer was searching among the carriages, he groped his
way between horses' hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the
cab which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. It was still
there, and the horse, as he had left it, with its head turned toward
the city. Gallegher opened the big gate noiselessly, and worked
nervously at the hitching strap. The knot was covered with a thin
coating of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen it.
But his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands