“How now? Dare you interfere when a traitor is to be punished?” cried Skip. “Yes, I dare.” The wig was torn off and the little fellow straightened himself up, showing himself a good-sized man, as he placed a whistle to his lips. “Nick Carter, the detective!” cried Skip Brodie, dashing through the window, carrying away sash and all. The detective sent a bullet after him, but whether the body that splashed into the dark waters was that of a corpse or a living man he could not tell. CHAPTER III. ONCE MORE ON HAND. The bullet intended for Skip Brodie passed within half an inch of his head. As has been before stated, it was midwinter, but the hardy ruffian did not seem to be at all affected by the cold. Instead of striking out boldly for some boats that were anchored in midstream, he swam slowly along in the shadow of the piers, heading his course down the river. The call blown by Nick Carter brought half a dozen police officers to his aid. “Get a boat,” he said, “the villain has just this moment leaped into the river. If he is not at the bottom, he cannot be many yards away.” The officers obeyed, but not a trace could they find, under or about the neighboring docks, of Skip. At one time they were so close to the chase that the bow of the boat came within an ace of striking the fugitive’s head. The fellow swam nearly a mile before determining to leave the water, and then he pulled himself on board of a low-lying canal boat, anchored at the foot of Thirty-fourth Street. There were several other vessels lying alongside and, clambering over these, he soon reached the dock. In the vicinity was a favorite place of his, “Boozing Ken” he called it, and thither he repaired. Like nearly all saloons resorted to by thieves, it was in the basement. There was a motley company present--toughs, drunken longshoremen, thieves and, that choice exotic, the young man taking in the town. “Hello, Skip, what’s up?” said the red-faced barmaid. “Been taking a bath? Rather cold trick, I should say.” “Hush up! Give me a drink.” A bottle and glass were placed before Brodie, and, each time filling the glass to the brim, he tossed off three drinks of the fiery stuff in rapid succession. “What’s up?” The woman leaned over the bar as she spoke. “The devil is to pay!” replied Skip. “Where is Jack?” “In the other room.” “Anyone with him?” “Yes.” “Who?” asked Skip. “That high-toned friend of yours,” replied the woman. “You know, the kid-gloved bloke. I forget what you call him.” “I know who you mean.” “Come in, Crackers; come in, I say.” Tambourine Jack and his remarkable brute walked into the place. Skip Brodie started as one who believes he sees a ghost. A thought struck him, and with him to think was to act. Rushing upon the little fellow, he caught him by the hair. “Let go!” “Damn the dog!” yelled Brodie. Crackers had sprung upon his master’s assailant.