That was indeed a part of it, and there was no reason, now, why Joe should conceal anything. He went with them to the dormitory and explained about the locks. Then they walked out into the parade-ground, where the empty boxes still lay at the machine shop wall. “We went over the roof,” said Joe, and every man who heard him tell how they did it agreed with the Superintendent. “Jim is a genius!” he exclaimed. “Not one boy in a thousand could have planned and carried out that escape.” “He’s a captain!” added the skipper of the steam tug. “But we’d have caught ’em, if it hadn’t been for that fog.” “We shall get them all, before long,” said Jim’s friend, the naval officer. “All but Jim. I’m afraid we’ve lost him. I’m sorry. I did want to do something more for that boy.” The very kindly man in charge of the House of Refuge printing office also remarked that it was a pity Jim should run away, just when he was learning his trade so fast and so well. He could hardly have guessed that Jim was already at a case in another shop, setting type as busily as usual. Mr. Kirby himself, a grey-haired, silent man, with a queer kind of smile on his face, was working at the press in another room, but Jim was not the only type-setter. At the next case stood Millie, and between them and the door were other ranges of cases, and two of these were journeymen printers. All were seemingly absorbed in their type-sticking when a man in a blue uniform opened the street door and strolled in. “Where’s Kirby?” he asked. “In the press room,” said Millie, but her hand slipped, as she spoke, and all the type in her half filled “stick” went rattling down on the floor. “That’s all pi,” laughed the policeman as he strode on to the press room door. “Kirby,” he said, “did you hear about the escape of those young fellows, last night, from the House of Refuge?” “Got out, did they?” asked Mr. Kirby. “I guess it isn’t in the papers.” “Too soon,” said the officer. “I don’t believe they want it printed, either. It’s no fault of theirs, but they want to catch the boys. Smartest escape----” and then he went on with an account of it which contained as many blunders as Jim was just then making in his type-setting. At the end of it, however, the officer said: “You see, two of ’em are printers, and one’s a pretty good one. They’re likely to look for work in their own trade, soon as they can get off their prison rig. If they should come to you, now----” “A boy’d be just hidden away in one of the big printing houses, down town,” said Mr. Kirby. “You couldn’t find him.” “Yes, we could,” said the officer. “Every man and boy in each one of them is already registered by the place itself and by the trades unions. We could find out just where he came from.” “Then why don’t you register my office?” asked Mr. Kirby. “You can take down the name of every fellow here, this morning, so that if any new fellow should come you could mark him. Register me.”