It was truly the stalwart guard; but two days had made a sad change in him. With head bound in a bloody rag, and face of a waxy yellow hue, he staggered limply out of one of the rear rooms between Corson and Owens. “Brace up, me boy! You're worth ten dead men,” said the policeman encouragingly. “That's right! you'll be yourself in a jiffy.” Barkhouse was soon propped up on the lounge in the guard-room, and with a few sips of whisky and a fresh bandage began to look like a more hopeful case. “'Twas a nasty cut,” said one of the men sympathetically. “How did you get it?” I asked. “I don't rightly know,” said Barkhouse faintly. “'Twas the night you went to Mother Borton's last week. After I leaves you, I walks down a piece towards the bay, and as I gets about to Drumm Street, I guess, a fellow comes along as I takes to be a sailor half-loaded. 'Hello, mate,' he says, a-trying to steady himself, 'what time did you say it was?' 'I didn't say,' says I, for I was too fly to take out my watch, even if it is a nickel-plater, for how could he tell what it was in the dark? and it's good for a dozen drinks at any water-front saloon. 'Well, what do you make it?' he says; and as I was trying to reckon whether it was nearer twelve or one o'clock, he lurches up agin' me and grabs my arms as if to steady himself. Then three or four fellows jumps from behind a lot of packing-boxes there, and grabs me. I makes a fight for it, and gives one yell, and the next I knows I was in a dark room here with the sorest head in San Francisco. An' I reckon I've been here about six days, and another would have finished me.” Barkhouse's “six days” estimate provoked a smile. “If you could get paid on your time reckoning,” remarked Owens in a humorous tone, “you'd be well off, Bob. 'Twas night before last you got took in.” Barkhouse looked incredulous, but I nodded my support of Owens' remarkable statement. “However, you'll be paid on your own reckoning, and better, too,” I said; and he was thereby consoled. “Now, we must get out of here,” I continued. “Take turns by twos in helping Barkhouse. We had better not risk staying here.” “Right,” said Corson, “and now we'll just take these three beauties along to the station.” “On what charge?” growled the man addressed as Conn. “Disturbing the peace--you've disturbed ours for sure--resisting an officer, vulgar language, keeping a disorderly house, carrying a pistol without a permit, and anything else I can think up between here and the station-house. If that doesn't satisfy ye, I'll put ye down for assault and robbery on Barkhouse's story, and ye may look out for a charge of murder before ye git out.” The men swore at this cheerful prospect, but as their hands were bound behind them, and Corson walked with his club in one hand and his pistol in the other, they took up the march at command, and the rest of us slowly followed. CHAPTER XXVIII THE CHASE IN THE STORM