"Yes, give me a hand and I'll try to rise."
Officer Chandler's great hand swung Shagarach on his feet. For a moment his knees sunk. Then he shook himself like a draggled dog. The liquor was working its way to his marrow and banishing the deep-seated chill.
"I owe my life to these boys," he said.
"Hello, what are you stripping for?" asked the officer, turning around.
"My dory," answered the Whistler. He had already reduced himself to the minimum of wearing apparel and stood ankle-deep in the surf.
The dory was twenty yards out, showing a dark broadside against the moonlit waves.
"Oh, all right," laughed Chandler. "Give me your arm, Mr. Shagarach. We'll furnish you a new outfit at the refectory. How did it all happen?"
"One moment, till the boy comes back." Shagarach knew that his assailant had had time to escape and that search for the present would be useless, but he saw no advantage in keeping the incident to himself. So he sketched the story of the letters, the rendezvous and the struggle, in his curt, forcible style.
"Find the head that cap fits and you'll do me a service," he concluded, showing Chandler the headgear.
"There was nobody on the bridge?"