As has been before stated, it was midwinter, but the hardy ruffian did not seem to be at all affected by the cold.
Instead of striking out boldly for some boats that were anchored in midstream, he swam slowly along in the shadow of the piers, heading his course down the river.
The call blown by Nick Carter brought half a dozen police officers to his aid.
“Get a boat,” he said, “the villain has just this moment leaped into the river. If he is not at the bottom, he cannot be many yards away.”
The officers obeyed, but not a trace could they find, under or about the neighboring docks, of Skip.
At one time they were so close to the chase that the bow of the boat came within an ace of striking the fugitive’s head.
The fellow swam nearly a mile before determining to leave the water, and then he pulled himself on board of a low-lying canal boat, anchored at the foot of Thirty-fourth Street.
There were several other vessels lying alongside and, clambering over these, he soon reached the dock.
In the vicinity was a favorite place of his, “Boozing Ken” he called it, and thither he repaired.
Like nearly all saloons resorted to by thieves, it was in the basement.