The stern, matter-of-fact inquiry could scarce conceal the pity in the tone; but it was the officer-voice speaking.

"In Water Street, New York, sir, not far from the big church—Oh, for the love of——"

"You speak like an Irishman."

"My parents were Irish, your honor, but I was born in the little house fourth from the corner. You won't let them—— Oh, God help me!"

The sturdy rocking beat of oars near to hand off the port quarter caused an interruption. The fugitive gave a quick glance full of terror in the direction of the sound; then he dropped forward upon his knees; his whimpering changed to a hoarse weeping whisper.

"Don't give me up; I'd rather die—save me—save me," he croaked.

One of the watch came hurrying aft. "There's a cutter here at the gangway," he said in a low voice, saluting the Lieutenant.

"Very good, my lad," responded the latter. "Take this man below, give him dry clothes and a place to sleep."

Two men helped the abject creature to his feet and led him sobbing to the forward hatchway. The Lieutenant stepped to the side.

"On board the cutter there," he called, "what do you want at this hour of night?" Well he knew, and he spoke as if the answer had been given.