"They started off without listenin' to my hail, so I climbed down to th' dock an' follows. It was evenin' now, an' th' street was crowded, but they pushed along ahead av me.
"Ye see it ware Jameson, sure enough, an whin he heard his wife ware dead, he wint up that street like a man in a dream. He forgot all about his dress, an' his face ware hard set like a man thinkin' over th' past. He had some five minutes' start av th' mates, an' whin a poor beggar woman spoke to him he scared her half to death with his voice when he asked her th' way to th' cemetery. Thin he remembered his disguise, stepped into a doorway, pulled off th' dress an' hat an' flung thim to th' old beggar woman, an' went his way.
"Garnett an' O'Toole came along a few minutes later an' saw th' beggar.
"'There he is. That's him,' sung out the old sailor, pintin' to th' old gal walkin' along wid her rags tied in a bundle tucked under her arm, fer she had made shift to change thim fer Jameson's slops.
"''Pon me whurd, ye're right fer onct agin,' says O'Toole.
"'Well, don't go a-spoilin' th' thing this time. Let me sail inter him, an' if I wants yer, I'll sing out, an' ye can bear a hand an' help.' Garnett swung across th' street to overhaul th' old woman, an' came up behind her.
"'Evenin', old lady, I wants to have a talk wid ye;' an' he lays his hand on her shoulder wid a grip to take a piece av flesh out. She stopped an' turned quick.
"'Caramba!' she yells; 'I teach ye to insult a dacent old lady, you Yankee dog. Help! Murder! ye bloody raskil! Help, help!' Thin she ware upon him like a wild cat, a clawin' an' bitin', screechin' and yellin'.
"'Sink you for a bloody scoundrel, Jameson, I knows ye,' roared Garnett.
'Larry, there, bear a hand. I have him.'
"'Hold him thin, ye brave man,' sings out O'Toole, comin' up. 'Go it, owld gal, give it to him. 'Tis a leddy-killer he is fer sure, 'pon me whurd, fer a fact. Claw him, bite him, even though he's as tough as nails. Yell him deaf, owld leddy. Do it fer his mether's sake, th' scand'lous owld rake he is. Get his year in yer teeth an' hold on, fer 'tis a leddy-killer ye have in yer hands at last. Whang his hide off! Whang him! Whang him!' An' I thought th' old raskil would die av laffin'.