The big Irishman, although it was in the dead of winter, leaped through a window into the waters of the river and swam to where a boat was anchored. While he was rowing it to a position under the window, Skip Brodie went to the end of the shed nearest the land and opened a trapdoor. “Give me a hand,” the leader said. With the assistance of Mackrell and Dick Denton he dragged something through the trap. Covered with grime, in the dim light of the hovel, it would have been hard indeed to have recognized this object as a human being. Hilton Field, for it was he, more dead than alive, was dragged to the window as if he had been a bag of wheat. “Ready, Barney?” Skip cried. “Yes!” Dick Denton and the others got into the boat--with the exception of Brodie. “Now, boys, don’t drown him.” Saying this, Skip flung the helpless banker into the arms outstretched to receive him. “Pull away and be sure and keep close to the Brooklyn side.” “Ain’t you coming?” “No,” replied Skip. “But if you remain you will be nabbed,” remonstrated the Jew. “You said the girl was to come first?” “Yes.” “Then I shall wait, and when she comes--well.” The ruffian’s features were distorted with passion. “Woe to you, Jew,” Skip continued, “if her coming is not followed by that of the police. Pull off, boys; some one is knocking at the door.” Again the knock was repeated. Hastily closing the window, the rascal went to the door. “Let me in! Let me in, I say.” “That is not her voice,” muttered Skip. “Blue!” “Green!” “Yellow!” “Who’s there?” The thief, believing now that they had been betrayed, was very careful. “Me and Crackers,” was the reply he got. “Come in--you!” exclaimed Brodie, swinging the door open. “Crackers,” said Tambourine Jack, addressing the mongrel, “we don’t seem to be very welcome here to-night.” Jack was a very valuable member of the gang and, notwithstanding his small size and queer ways, there were no large jobs undertaken in which he was not an active worker. “Anything in the bottles?” asked the visitor, before placing one of them to his lips. “I guess there is a little left.” “Say, Skip, I wants to ask you a question,” said Jack. “How comes it that this high-toned rooster, Elmer Greer, bosses the gang?” “Elmer Greer--I don’t know any such person.” “Oh, yes, you does.” “Well, if I do,” muttered Brodie, “how comes it that you know him?” “Oh, my eye, I knows all the bloods about town,” replied Tambourine Jack. “Crackers here can tell you that we move in the very best society.” The fellow drew a cigar stub from his pocket and lighting it, said: “That’s the kind Bill Vanderbilt smokes; he recommended the brand to me, saying: ‘Jack, my boy, lay in a stock of them; they will all be bought up within a few days, there is such a great demand.’” Skip was in no humor for chaffing. Dark passions reigned in his breast. The brute sat on a low stool, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hands.