“'Ere's a bloomin' gow, Jem!” said the one born in London. “Now '00 d' ye tyke the gent to be?”

They were good police people, ignorant but innocent; and disinclined to give Hamilton Finnerty the collar.

“Frisk 'un, Bill,” advised the one from Yorkshire; “it's loike th' naime bees in 'uns pawkets.”

The two went through the make-up of Hamilton Finnerty. Jagged as he was, he heeded them not. They struck the steamer tickets and noted the steamer's name, but not the day of sailing.

As if anxious to aid in the overthrow of Hamilton Finnerty, the steamer was still at her dock, with preparations all but complete for the return slide to New York.

“Now 'ere's a luvely mess!” said London Bill, looking at the tickets. “The bloody bowt gows in twenty minutes, an' 'ere's this gent a-gettin' 'eeself left! An' th' tickets for 'ees missus, too! It's punds t' peanuts, th' loidy's aboard th' bowt tearin' 'er blessed heyes out for 'im. Hy, say there, kebby! bear a 'and! This gent's got to catch a bowt!”

Hamilton Finnerty, dumb with Gin and Dog's Head, was tumbled into the cab, and the vehicle, taking its hunch from the excited officers, made the run of its life to the docks. They were in time.

“It tak's th' droonken 'uns t'av th' loock!” remarked Yorkshire Jem cheerfully to London Bill, as they stood wiping their honest faces on the dock, while the majestic steamer, with Hamilton Finnerty aboard, worked slowly out.