For a moment he looked down at the man contemptuously. To have

befuddled his brain at such a time! Or was it because the wretch knew

that he, Thomas, would not dare cry out over his loss? He stepped

behind the sleeping man. He wanted to fall upon him, beat him with his

fists. Ah, if he had not found him!

The night, fortunately, was warm and thick. Jameson had carelessly

thrown open his coat and vest. Underneath he wore the usual

sailor-jersey. Thomas steeled his arms. With one hand he pulled the

roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the

string: sought in vain. The light, the four drab walls, the haze of

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tobacco smoke, all turned red.

"Where is it, you dog? Quick!" Thomas shook the man. "Where is it?

Quick, or I'll throttle you!"

"Lemme 'lone!" Jameson sagged toward the table again.

Thomas bent him back ruthlessly and plunged a hand into the inside

pocket of the man's coat. The touch of the chamois-bag burned like

fire. He pulled it out and transferred it to his own pocket and made

for the door. He did not care now what happened. Found! Woe to any

one who had the ill-luck to stand between him and the exit.

Outside the door stood the shabby waiter, grinning cheerfully. He was

accompanied by a hulking, shifty-eyed creature.

"Roll 'im, ol' sport? Caught in th' act, huh?" gibed the waiter.

Thomas had the right idea. He struck first. The waiter crashed

against the wall. The hulking, shifty-eyed one fared worse. He went

down with his face to the cracks in the floor. Thomas dashed for the

exit.




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