Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the street. “We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll soon settle him. You watch him.” Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable, smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to temptation and put it in his pocket. He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground. A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from his mouth, and left him there. The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start. When the crimp got alongside with his men the _Jeremiah Crawford_ was hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for Sullivan and the sailors. “Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out. “I want to get under way.” “All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps. “We’ll soon have them on board. Get out of that, you brutes!” he added, giving one of the dazed men a kick. Sullivan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly recover his senses. “I don’t belong to this ship,” he said, and made for the gangway. With an oath Sullivan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then bundled the lot forward. [Illustration: “EACH OF THEM WAS KNOCKED SENSELESS WITH A BLOW BEHIND THE EAR FROM A KNUCKLE-DUSTER.”] Finding no light in the forecastle Sullivan and his men stepped inside, and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle-duster. They were then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatch fastened down, while the new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged liquor.