‘It wouldn’t matter how much responsibility you took,’ Hazell retorted; ‘you wouldn’t put me back into the service, and my career would be at an end.’ ‘But there are other careers,’ said Racksole, who was really anxious to lame his ex-waiter by means of a judiciously-aimed bullet. ‘There are other careers.’ ‘The Customs is my career,’ said Hazell, ‘so let’s have no shooting. We’ll wait about a bit; he can’t escape. You can have my skewer if you like’--and he gave Racksole his searching instrument. ‘And you can do what you please, provided you do it neatly and don’t make a row over it.’ For a few moments the four men were passive in the boat, surrounded by swirling mist, with black water beneath them, and towering above them a half-loaded barge with a desperate and resourceful man on board. Suddenly the mist parted and shrivelled away in patches, as though before the breath of some monster. The sky was visible; it was a clear sky, and the moon was shining. The transformation was just one of those meteorological quick-changes which happen most frequently on a great river. ‘That’s a sight better,’ said the fat man. At the same moment a head appeared over the edge of the barge. It was Jules’ face--dark, sinister and leering. ‘Is it Mr Racksole in that boat?’ he inquired calmly; ‘because if so, let Mr Racksole step up. Mr Racksole has caught me, and he can have me for the asking. Here I am.’ He stood up to his full height on the barge, tall against the night sky, and all the occupants of the boat could see that he held firmly clasped in his right hand a short dagger. ‘Now, Mr Racksole, you’ve been after me for a long time,’ he continued; ‘here I am. Why don’t you step up? If you haven’t got the pluck yourself, persuade someone else to step up in your place ... the same fair treatment will be accorded to all.’ And Jules laughed a low, penetrating laugh. He was in the midst of this laugh when he lurched suddenly forward. ‘What’r’ you doing of aboard my barge? Off you goes!’ It was a boy’s small shrill voice that sounded in the night. A ragged boy’s small form had appeared silently behind Jules, and two small arms with a vicious shove precipitated him into the water. He fell with a fine gurgling splash. It was at once obvious that swimming was not among Jules’ accomplishments. He floundered wildly and sank. When he reappeared he was dragged into the Customs boat. Rope was produced, and in a minute or two the man lay ignominiously bound in the bottom of the boat. With the aid of a mudlark--a mere barge boy, who probably had no more right on the barge than Jules himself--Racksole had won his game. For the first time for several weeks the millionaire experienced a sensation of equanimity and satisfaction. He leaned over the prostrate form of Jules, Hazell’s professional skewer in his hand. ‘What are you going to do with him now?’ asked Hazell.