Then he crawled awkwardly toward one of the big spiles at the side of the structure, where he passed into a profound slumber.  This, too, was a conventional procedure for the neighborhood!  A man walked across the street, from the darkness of a deserted hallway:  he gave the somnolent one a kick.  The longshoreman grunted, rolled over, and continued to snore obliviously.

An automobile honk-honked up Twenty-third Street, and then swung around in a swift curve toward the dock.  The investigating kicker slunk away, down the street.  The limousine drew up at the entrance to the tender gangway.  Accompanied by a portly servant, a young man in a fur coat, stepped from the machine.

“Give them another call with your horn, Sam,” he directed.  “The boat will be in for me, then.”

This was done.  A scraping noise came from the hanging stairway of the dock, and a voice called up from the darkness:  “Here we are, sir!” Howard Van Cleft leaned over the edge and looked down, somewhat nervously.  A reassuring word came up from the boat, rocking against the spiles.

“You was a bit late, sir.  You said three, Mr. Van Cleft, and now it’s ten after.  So the captain sent us in to wait for you.  Everything’s shipshape, sir, steam up, and all the supplies aboard.  Climb right down the ladder, sir.  Steady now, lads!”

This seemed to presage good.  Van Cleft turned to his butler.

“Take down the luggage, Edward.  Goodbye, Sam.  Keep an eye on the machines.  The folks will attend to everything for you while I am away.  Good-bye.”

The butler had delivered the baggage and now returned up the ladder, puffing with his exertions.

“Good-bye, sir,” and his voice was more emotional than usual.  “Watch yourself, sir, if you please, sir.  You’re the last Van Cleft, and we need you, sir.”  The old man touched his hat, and climbed into the automobile, as Van Cleft climbed down the ladder.  The machine sped away under the skilful guidance of Sam.

“Steady, sir, steady—­There, we have you now, sir,—­Quick, men!  Up the river with the tide.  Row like hell!—­Keep your oars muffled—­here comes the other boat.”

All this seemed naturally the accompaniment of the embarkment of Van Cleft’s yachting cruise, but the sleeping longshoreman suddenly arose to his feet and blew a shrill police whistle.  Next instant the flash of his pocket-lamp illumined the dark boat below him.  A volley of curses greeted this untoward action!  A revolver barked from the hand of a big man in the stern.  Young Van Cleft lay face downward in the boat, neatly gagged and bound.  As the light still flickered over the surprised oarsmen, an answering shot evidenced better aim.  The man in the back of the bobbing vessel groaned as he fell forward upon the prostrate body of the pinioned millionaire.  One oarsman disappeared over the side of the boat, to glide into the unfathomable darkness, with skilful strokes.