Ten minutes later the first accident of the day occurred. In stepping from one ship to another, Jackson missed his footing, caught wildly at a ratline, which broke in his grasp, and shot downward with a yell into the water. By the time he had risen to the surface, Howard, who had been a little in advance, was back, peering down at him. “Can you climb out?” he demanded. “No! I guess you can’t without help. Hook your fingers into that port-hole--there, just behind you. That’s right! Can you hang on for a while? It may take some time to find a rope sound enough to bear your weight.” Jackson clawed the weed from off his face. “Yes! I can hang on all right,” he returned, savagely. Evidently his involuntary bath had ruffled his temper. “I can swim, too,” he added. Howard disappeared, and the policeman settled himself to wait. He had learned to swim in the North River, and had no difficulty in keeping afloat, even without the adventitious aid of the bull’s-eye in the steamer’s side just above him. If he had fallen in almost anywhere else he could have gotten out himself, but, as it chanced, this particular bit of water was shut in by the sides of three ships, none of which offered a foothold by which to climb. The bull’s-eye by which he hung was the only orifice that broke the smoothness of the overhanging sides. Time passed, however, and Howard did not return, and a vague uneasiness began to work in the policeman’s mind. There were ropes everywhere. Surely, it did not take so long to find one. He called, but received no answer. Could Howard have lost the place? Or could some accident have befallen him? Or, could--good God! Did the man mean to leave him to drown? The suggestion, once offered, would not down. It was, he told himself, the very thing to be expected. With him out of the way, Howard would be freed from the shadow of the gallows. He alone--except Miss Fairfax, and what was a girl’s life--he alone knew that Howard had survived the wreck of the Queen. With him dead, Howard--supposing that he could regain dry land--could live out his life in safety. And what was a policeman’s life to one whose hands were already stained with the blood of his own wife? Jackson drew a long breath as conviction forced itself upon him. It was characteristic of the man that he did not whimper. He had been dealing with criminals for twenty years, and conceded them the right to fight for their own hand. He had always declared that he would take his dose when it came without doing the baby act; and, by George, he would keep his word. Hope had vanished when Howard reappeared. In his hand was a boat’s tackle, which he proceeded to hitch to a davit that projected over Jackson’s head. But, instead of dropping down the other end, he quietly seated himself on the bulwarks and stared thoughtfully at the man below. “Well, Jackson,” he remarked, deliberately, “our positions seem to be reversed.” The policeman scowled. “Damn you, yes,” he responded, truculently.