"Send help! Send help!" he signalled over and over, and when his arm was about to fail, Cavanaugh scrambled to his side and took up the tapping. How long they waited they could not tell. Time dragged and the waters began to rise again while the splashing about of floating boxes, drifting among the debris drowned out the outside noises. Grant, reaching up with the balehook to begin his signalling once more was startled to see a tiny spot of red glowing above his head in the darkness. A moment more and the spot changed to white and he lurched sideways as a hissing drop of molten steel sung past his ear and dropped into the water with a burst of steam. A greenish flame showed through the steel, the flame of an acetylene torch, lighting the watery, floating hold like a glint of summer lightning. And as they watched it, the hole grew and grew. At last a mass of steel dropped into the water and through the widened hole, Grant caught a glimpse of the stars twinkling in the sky. A shadow fell across the opening and they heard a voice bellowing to them above the sound of the water. "Who's there?" "Harrison Grant, Cavanaugh, Stewart, Sisson!" Four masculine voices shouted the necessary information. "Oh, all right, gentlemen! Hold tight until the edges have cooled. Just a minute now." Five minutes later the four members of the Criminology Club, bruised and battered, wet and ragged, stood upright on the hull of the capsized vessel, under the bright stars, with the cool breath of the river blowing into their grateful nostrils. The lights from the docks glinted on the buttons and stars which adorned the coats of their rescuers. Grant leaned forward and peered into the face of one of the patrolmen. "Leary! So you're the one who does the Desperate Desmond act and rescues gentlemen in distress?" "Yes Mr. Grant. And do you feel like answering any questions?" "If they are necessary." "They're necessary all right. If you'll just come over here on the dock, please. Muldoon's got a prisoner. Saw him running away from the dock here and tripped him up. He'll confess, all right." Grant followed the patrolman into the warehouse. Muldoon clutched a cringing form. "That's no one I know, Muldoon. He is probably a confederate." "He said he did it all, Mr. Grant." "A favorite tale with these German spies, Muldoon. Here you!" He grasped the spy suddenly. "I want you to tell the truth and to tell it quick. Where's the foreman of this dock?" The spy swallowed with evident effort, and then gasped out: "Gone to a labor meeting." "He gave you orders to cut those hawsers didn't he?" The spy's eyes wavered, and then, held by Grant's glance, came back: "Yes." "Why?" The spy shrugged his shoulders. "He had orders to sink the ship." "From whom?" "I don't know. He wanted them to think the 'longshoremen did it." "And bring about a strike? Very simple. Now we'll go over to the labor meeting and you can tell the people you see there this same little story."