Then a policeman's whistle was blown three times. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was almost tropical in force. Down towards the wharf tore Jabez, Shorty close behind him. The police were never in the running. As he reached the stream, and saw its surging surface sweeping seaward, for a moment his nerve failed him. Could he hope to live in that seething caldron?
There was no choice—he must risk it.
"'Ere 'e is—'ere 'e is!" yelled Shorty. "No you don't—not that way!"
With a shout he threw himself on Jabez and clung to him like a limpet. There was a wild struggle.
"'Elp, 'elp!" roared the boy.
Cautiously the police crept along the crazy old wharf, which was straining every timber in the gale. The two men struggled on—the one for gold, the other for dear life and liberty. There was a cry of terror and a hoarse roar of rage. Then a thud, and after that a splash, and the inarticulate sounds of two human creatures locked in each other's arms—gone to their death together.
And the voice of baulked humanity was hissed down by the roar of the storm.