The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.
“An awful night, sir,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.
“Is that your boat?” said he.
“It is,” replied the waterman in surprise, “you don’t want to go on the water on such a night, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Gorman, trembling in every limb; “come, jump in, and shove off.”
At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.
“Are you mad?” exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.
In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.
Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel’s side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.