What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain Scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting editor by the shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of his men.

This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he excitedly raised his hand in resistance.  But before he had time to do anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong, little hand, and he was conscious that another was picking the pocket of his great-coat.

He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down, saw Gallegher standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist.  Mr. Dwyer had forgotten the boy’s existence, and would have spoken sharply if something in Gallegher’s innocent eyes had not stopped him.

Gallegher’s hand was still in that pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had shoved his note-book filled with what he had written of Gallegher’s work and Hade’s final capture, and with a running descriptive account of the fight.  With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew it out, and with a quick movement shoved it inside his waistcoat.  Mr. Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension.  Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and finding that they were still interested in the wordy battle of the correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and whispered to Gallegher:  “The forms are locked at twenty minutes to three.  If you don’t get there by that time it will be of no use, but if you’re on time you’ll beat the town—­and the country too.”

Gallegher’s eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his head to show he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door.  But the officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to Mr. Dwyer’s astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent of tears.

“Let me go to me father.  I want me father,” the boy shrieked, hysterically.  “They’ve ’rested father.  Oh, daddy, daddy.  They’re a-goin’ to take you to prison.”

“Who is your father, sonny?” asked one of the guardians of the gate.

“Keppler’s me father,” sobbed Gallegher.  “They’re a-goin’ to lock him up, and I’ll never see him no more.”

“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.