“Get out of my station!” cried Gothecore, with a rain of oath upon oath; “get out, or I'll have you chucked out!” This was when the Reverend Bronson demanded the charge on which the former waiter was held. “Do a sneak!” roared Gothecore, as the Reverend Bronson stood in silent indignation. “I'll have no pulpit-thumper doggin' me! You show your mug in here ag'in, an' you'll get th' next cell to that hash-slingin' stoolpigeon of yours. You can bet your life, I aint called Clean Sweep Bill for fun!” As though this were not enough, there arrived in its wake another bit of news that made me, who was on the threshold of my campaign to retain the town, bite my lip and dig my palms with the anger it unloosed within me. By way of added fuel to flames already high, that one waiter, but the day before prisoner to Gothecore, must be picked up dead in the streets, head club-battered to a pulp. Who murdered the man? Half the town said Gothecore. For myself, I do not care to dwell upon that poor man's butchery, and my veins run fire to only think of it. There arises the less call for elaboration, since within hours--for it was the night of that very day on which the murdered man was found--the life was stricken from the heart of Gothecore. He, too, was gone; and Melting Moses had gone with him. By his own choice, this last, as I have cause to know. “I'll do him before I'm through!” sobbed Melting Moses, as he was held back from Gothecore on the occasion when he would have gone foaming for his throat; “I'll get him, if I have to go wit' him!” It was the Chief of Police who brought me word. I had sent for him with a purpose of charges against Gothecore, preliminary to his dismissal from the force. Aside from my liking for the Reverend Bronson, and the resentment I felt for the outrage put upon him, Gothecore must go as a defensive move of politics. The Chief's eye, when he arrived, popped and stared with a fishy horror, and for all the coolness of the early morning his brow showed clammy and damp. I was in too hot a hurry to either notice or remark on these phenomena; I reeled off my commands before the visitor could find a chair. “You're too late, Gov'nor,” returned the Chief, munching uneasily, his fat jowls working. “For once in a way, you've gone to leeward of the lighthouse.” “What do you mean?” said I. Then he told the story; and how Gothecore and Melting Moses were taken from the river not four hours before. “It was a fire in th' box factory,” said the Chief; “that factory 'buttin' on th' docks. Gothecore goes down from his station. The night's as dark as the inside of a cow. He's jimmin' along th' edge of th' wharf, an' no one noticin' in particular. Then of a sudden, there's an oath an' a big splash. “'Man overboard!' yells some guy. “The man overboard is Gothecore. Two or three coves come chasin' up to lend a hand.