It was near midnight when he concluded to make his way to the room, hoping that Jim would show up before morning.

The sounds of revelry below, mingled with shouts and the stamping of feet, together with the feverish condition of the lad, kept him awake another hour; but at last he fell into a light, uneasy sleep, haunted by all sorts of grotesque, awful visions.

Suddenly he awoke; in the dim light of his little room Tom saw the figure of a man standing by the bed.

“Who are you?  What do you want?” whispered the terrified lad, struggling to rise to a sitting position.

“Mebbe ye doesn’t know me, but I’m Patsey McConough, and it was mesilf that saw ye shtrike out so boldly last night and save the gal that had fallen overboard, and St. Patrick himself couldn’t have done it any better than did yersilf.”

“What do you mean by coming into my room this way?” asked Tom, whose fear greatly subsided under the words of the Irishman.

“I come up-stairs to wake ye, for I’m afeard ye are going to have trouble onless ye look mighty sharp.”

“What do you mean?”

Patsey carefully closed and bolted the door behind him, and sat down on the edge of the bed, speaking in a low, guarded voice.

“There’s a big crowd down-stairs, and Tim’s grog is getting to their heads, and they’re riddy for any sort of a job.  There are a couple of Italian cut-throats, and though I can’t understand much of their lingo, yet I cotched enough of the same to make me sartin they mean to rob ye.”

“But would they dare try it in the house here?”

“Whisht now, there isn’t anything they wouldn’t thry, if they thought there was a chance of making a ha’pence at it.  They’ve murdered men afore to-night, and they would just as lief slip up here and cut your wizen as they would ate a piece of macaroni.  Whisht now, and I’ll give ye the partic’lars and inshtruct ye what to do.  It wouldn’t be safe for ye to git up and go out, for they’ll folly ye and garrote ye afore ye could raich a safe place.  I would stay here and watch with ye, but that I’ve overstayed me time alriddy, and I’ll catch thunder whin I git back home, ’cause I can’t make the boss belave the raison why I staid.  Here’s a pistol,” added the Irishman, shoving a five-shooter into the hand of the astonished lad, “and ivery barrel is loaded, and it niver misses fire, as the victims can tell ye as have been hit by the same.  Do ye take this, bolt yer door, and if anybody comes poking in the room after I’m gone, just bore a hole through him, and then ax him if he ain’t ashamed of himself to steal into a private apartment in that shtyle.  Take me word for it, he won’t come agin.”

“I should think not,” said Tom, who was dressing himself.  “But I don’t like the idea of shooting a man.”

“Nor do I, but it’s loikely to be a chice between shooting him or him shooting ye, and ye are at liberty to decide.”