The deep-toned bell in the town hall was striking twelve. It was a still, overcast night, with a mild breeze blowing up from the head of Lake Michigan. Three men stood at the gate of the yards talking in low tones, somewhat oppressed, perhaps, by the silence. Before them, a little way, was the white circle thrown by the electric light over the bridge; behind were the great dim piles of lumber with the narrow alleys between, now black as the sky, and carpeted as they were with chips and shavings, as silent beneath the foot as velvet. The only noise came, in the intervals between words, from the two steamers that lay breathing softly alongside the wharf. “What you doin' on watch, Du Bois? Changed your job?” “No; Mr. Halloran asked me to go on to-night. He says it's time we had some good men down here.” “Aw, go on!” “Say, Runyon, who's that on the bridge?” All three watched a moment. “Dunno 'im. Throw your lantern on 'im when he goes by.” But the fellow turned in at the gate. “Who's this?” “I'm George Bigelow. Mr. Halloran said I could go on watch at twelve.” “Bigelow ain't a very safe name around here, sonny. How about it, Du Bois?” “It's all right, I guess. He's the new lumber-checker.” They all laughed. “You understand, don't you, boy, that if a man's caught sleeping or off his post he gets shot?” “Why--why------” “Don't let 'im scare you, sonny. He's the lazy beggar 'imself. Say, Du Bois, I thought I saw a tramp hanging around about an hour ago. If you want to look through the yards once more with me I'll stay for it.” “Take the boy. It'll learn him the ropes. Run along, boy.” “Good-night, there.” “Good-night, Runyon. I won't wait.” They separated, one man hurrying off for home and a bed, Du Bois lingering at the gate for a look up and down the line of the fence; Runyon and George, their lanterns darkened, slipping stealthily away into the shadow. “I seen somethin' over there by the mill,” said Runyon, in a subdued voice, “like it was a tramp that had dumb the fence by the bridge and was sneakin' along the bank. Here, now, hold on a minute,”--he caught the boy's arm--“I was a-standin' right here. Now look down between them piles--past the mill. See that little strip o' the river where the bridge light's a-shinin'? It looked to me like somethin' black went acrost it.” They went on, giving a quarter of an hour to winding through the alleys, throwing a light into every dark corner. “A feller can't be expected to see everything--not in yards as big as these here. We needn't go out around the P'int. I guess there ain't nothin'. Here's Du Bois a-waitin' by the _Number One_. I'll leave you with him. You got a whistle, ain't you?” “Yes; Mr. Halloran gave me one.” “You know about it? If you blow, it means fire. So don't get gay with it.” “Hallo, there,” said Du Bois, as they joined him on the wharf in the little patch of light that fell from the steamer's engine-room. “You're purty poor. Where's your tramp?”