every now and then a drunken longshoreman reels or is thrown into the street and staggers off, heaven knows where. Every half-hour or so a ferry boat lumbers in and out of the slip, and there is a temporary bustle in the vicinage.
"A miserable night, senor," remarks Van Zandt, as they cross West Street and pick their way toward the pier where lies the vessel in which are centered now all of Don Manada's hopes. The latter has forgotten for the nonce his recent humiliation and is keenly alive to the adventurous undertaking in hand.
The men plunge through the gloom, muffled to the eyes and with heads bent before the biting blasts from the river, when their ears are suddenly assailed by the sound of a scuffle ahead of them and a half-choked cry for help. Quickening their steps, they run upon two men. One of them is prone upon the pier; the other, clearly his assailant, bends over him.
Before the scamp can rise Van Zandt deals him a blow with his heavy cane that stretches him beside his victim. He is not a courageous rogue, or if he is realizes that his chance for an argument is not especially good. So when he struggles to his feet he makes off without a word, without even an imprecation.
Van Zandt and Manada raise the prostrate form and bear it back to the street. As the lamplight falls upon the face of the unconscious man Van Zandt utters an ejaculation of astonishment.
"By heaven! it is Gen. Murillo! You see, my friend, that I was not mistaken. He probably came down here to have a look at the Isabel, and was set upon by one of the scum of the river front."
Manada nods a silent assent. "He must not see us," he mutters, uneasily.
"Don't be alarmed. He is not likely to recognize any one for a few minutes. I hope he is not badly hurt. Off with him to yonder saloon; or, better, to the ferryhouse. The man will be safer there, though we are more likely to find a policeman at the saloon."
A policeman is at the ferryhouse, however, and assist-
