who was making for the wharf, careening along full sail on the sea of the night's memories. Such voyages always come to sudden endings. This time the rock that stove in the frail bark was a bit of gashouse slang from Phil—about Sally. He was half-drunk or he wouldn't have said it.
The retort from Ben's right was swifter and more accurate than Pushbutton Pete's and Master Phil was stretched out on the cobbles of the alley, when MacAllister, with an almost imperceptible gesture, signaled to Pete. And Pete always caught the slightest of his chief's signals. Ben turned instinctively, only to slip in the lees from a battened-in wine-cask that lay near the gutter. The blow was a little high but sufficient to catch him off-balance, and stones made the oblivion utter and complete. Philip was the first to revive.
"Here, this is your mess," said MacAllister, "lend us a hand."
"Not there," called the boy, "that's his ship. Try the one laid up at the Bunker Dock."
They carried the unconscious sailor along the water-front two blocks, and, evading the watch on board, threw him under a life-boat by the port light, covering his inert form with a tarpaulin. As an extra precaution, the efficient MacAllister shook the full contents of a bottle on a handkerchief, and left it as a pleasant dream-potion over the victim's head.
"Another of my many little favours," said he to the youth as they slunk away from the wharf, "and another most excellent reason for forgetting."
"Just what do you mean?" asked the now frightened Phil.
