Though the British occupation had greatly changed the aspect of the town by daylight, it had not altered the topography of that part which Philip had to traverse, and the darkness that served as his shield was to him no impediment.  Many a time, in the old days, we had chased and fled through those streets and alleys, in make-believe deer-hunts or mimic Indian warfare.  So, without a collision or a stumble, he made his way swiftly to the mouth of a street that gave upon the water-front, by the Faringfield warehouse where so many busy days of his boyhood and youth had passed, and opposite the wharves.

He paused here, lacking knowledge whether the river front was guarded or not.  He saw no human being, but could not be sure whether or not some dark form might emerge from the dimness when he should cross to the wharves.  These, like the street and the roofs, were snow-covered.  Aloft beyond them, but close, two or three faint lights, tiny yellow islets in a sea of gloom, revealed the presence of the shipping on which he had counted.  He could hear the slap of the inky water against the piles, but scarce another sound, save his own breathing.

He formed the intention of making a noiseless dash across the waterside street, with body bent low, to the part of the wharf where a small boat was most like to be.  He was standing close to one side of a wooden building that fronted toward the wharf.

He sprang forward, and, just as he passed the corner of the edifice, his head struck something heavy but yielding, which toppled over sidewise with a grunt, and upon which Philip fell prone, forcing from it a second grunt a little less vigorous than the first.  ’Twas a human body, that had come from the front of the house at the same instant in which Philip had darted from along the side.

“Shall I choke him to assure silence?” Phil hurriedly asked himself, and instinctively made to put his hands to the man’s neck.  But the body under him began to wriggle, to kick out with its legs, and to lay about with its hands.

“What the hell d’yuh mean?” it gasped.  “Git off o’ me!”

Philip scrambled promptly to his feet, having recognised the voice.

“I’ll stake my life, it’s Meadows!”

“Yes, it is, and who in the name of hellfire an’ brimstone—?”

“Hush, Bill!  Don’t you know my voice?  Let me help you up.  There you are.  I’m Philip Winwood!”

“Why, so y’are, boy!  Excuse the way I spoke.  But what on airth—?”

“No matter what I’m doing here.  The thing is to get back to camp.  Come!  Is the wharf a safe place for me?”

“Yes, at this hour of a dark night.  But I’d like to know—­”

“Keep with me, then,” whispered Philip, and made for the wharf, holding the old watchman’s arm.  “Show me where there’s a small boat.  I must row to the Jersey side at once, and then ride—­by heaven, I wish I might get a horse, over there, without going as far as Dan Ellis’s!  I left mine with him.”