They stopped pulling; he dragged in his oar till he could lay hold of me, and then they hauled me into the boat. I was exhausted with cold and my energetic struggles in the water; and it was not until they had wrapped me up in a great-coat, and poured some spirits down my throat; that I could speak. They inquired to which of the craft I belonged.
“The Folly barge.”
“The very one we are searching for. Where about is she, my lad?”
I directed them: the boat was a large wherry, pulling six oars, belonging to the river police. The officer in the stern sheets, who steered her, then said, “How came you overboard?”
“I was thrown overboard,” replied I, “by a man called Fleming.”
“The name he goes by,” cried the officer. “Give way, my lads. There’s murder, it appears, as well as other charges.”
In a quarter of an hour we were alongside—the officer and four men sprang out of the boat, leaving the other two with directions for me to remain in the boat. Cold and miserable as I was, I was too much interested in the scene not to rise up from the stern sheets, and pay attention to what passed. When the officer and his men gained the deck, they were met by Fleming in the advance, and Marables about a yard or two behind.
“What’s all this?” cried Fleming, boldly. “Are you river pirates, come to plunder us?”
“Not exactly,” replied the officer; “but we are just come to overhaul you. Deliver up the key of your cabin,” continued he, after trying the door and finding it locked.
“With all my heart, if you prove yourselves authorised to search,” replied Fleming; “but you’ll find no smuggled spirits here, I can tell you. Marables, hand them the key; I see that they belong to the river guard.”