The bells were tolling eight o'clock when the locksmith and Phil and Andy forced a door at the extreme south end of the building. They were ringing out nine o'clock when five silent figures emerged from that same rear grating through which Phil and Andy had fled from the dock Tories two nights previous. The old locksmith had departed by the public street route. The rescue had been successful. Mr. Warrington grasped his son's arm affectionately, and took a great, deep breath of the balmy air as he reached the deserted wharf. Andy was busy explaining to his two recent fellow prisoners the details of the rescue. Certainly Burt Noble had done his share in entertaining the guards. The rest was easy. The prisoners had been placed in a room sealed with thin boards. Their jailers had depended entirely upon their heavy manacles to keep their captives from escaping. Their prison room located, a hole had been sawed by the locksmith in the wooden side of the room. He had crept through, and released the manacles with his tools. They had reached the open air, and now it was only a question of getting across the river to the Continental camp. "We must go cautiously down the wharf, and try and find a boat to take us over," said Phil. But no boat showed until they reached a break in the fence, affording a lane leading down to the wharf. Some distance beyond lay a good-sized yawl, but further was a sort of a cabin boat that showed lights. The little party stood irresolute. They were undecided as to the best course to pursue. Phil was half-minded to go back into the city and find some good shelter for his father and the others, until they could arrange more safely for their transportation across the river. Just then, however, a man turned down the lane, a British officer in full uniform. He was waving a naked sword and singing loudly. As he made out the refugees, he advanced straight upon them. "Want the admiral--got any admiral round here?" he demanded in a stumbling voice. "Sent here from England--just arrived. Going to clean out these rebels, root and branch. Left grand reception to--to inspect harbor. Duty--am a slave to du-ty." "Yes, sir," said Phil. "There is no admiral here, but--" "Ha! there's a boat. Ha! my jolly men, get aboard. Insist on duty. Insist on making inspection at once." Phil was delighted. He led the way to the yawl. He managed to guide the British officer to a seat in the bow, where he sat very pompous and self-important. Just as the rope was released, there was a shout from the cabin boat just beyond. Two men with muskets came running down the planking. "Halt, there! who are you?" demanded a stentorian voice. "Col. Flashleigh Buckingham, sir!" roared the military dignitary, his bright epaulettes and gaudy gold braid making their due impression on the sentinels. "Straight from King George, sir. Sent specially to sweep out the rebels, and going to do it. Row on, men."