Cook attempted to join in the chorus, but his voice failed him, his head sank down upon his breast, and, in a drunken stupor, he rolled from his seat, prone upon the ground.

The tramp, rising to his feet, staggered to the side of his companion, and steadying himself with the aid of a chair, made futile attempts to raise his comrade to a perpendicular position.  His knees bent under him, the chair fell from his unsteady grasp, and murmuring, “We’ll pass the bottle round,” he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbent Cook, passed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus, seemingly dead drunk.

With a bitter curse of rage Cummings stepped forward, and, with rough hands, separated the boon companions, thrusting the tramp without ceremony under the table, Moriarity in the meantime shaking Cook in vain attempts to rouse him from his maudlin stupor.  Cook, however, was too far “under the influence” to be aroused, and to the vigorous shakings and punchings would respond only with a hiccough and part of the refrain “puppies drink.”

Cummings, in a towering rage at finding Cook in such a helpless condition, paced the small shop with impatient tread, all the time pouring imprecations upon Cook’s devoted head.  A sudden turn in his short beat brought him facing the window, and flattened against the dirty pane was the face of a man gazing intently into the room.

Another second and the face had disappeared.

Cummings stopped abruptly at the sight of the apparition, his face became livid, and a shade of terror flashed across his countenance.  It was but an instant, though, that he stood thus, and calling to Moriarity to follow, he dashed through the door, drawing his ready revolver from his side coat-pocket at the same time, and catching a fleeting glimpse of a flying shadow, sped after it.

Moriarity, somewhat dazed at the unexpected turn of affairs, had risen to his feet, and stood blankly gazing at the open door, not comprehending what had occurred.  A movement made by the pseudo tramp, caused him to turn around, and he was gazing straight into the open barrel of a dangerous-looking revolver, held by a steady hand, and cool daring eyes were glancing over the shining barrel, as a voice, decided and commanding, said: 

“Hands out, Dan Moriarity, I want you.”

Chip, as he was stretched on the floor feigning drunkenness, had kept his ears open, although obliged to keep his eyes closed.

The single candle which lit the room, furnished light too indistinct for him to see the faces of the two visitors, and as he acted his character of the drunken man, he cudgeled his brains to account for their visit.

The sudden disappearance of Cummings, and his calling out, “Moriarity, follow me,” cleared the mystery.

He comprehended the situation at once.

While he did not know it was Jim Cummings that had been in the room, his mind with lightning speed grouped the torn express tag, the words “it to Cook,” the man Cook, who lay beside him drunk, the fifty-dollar bill which he had changed at the bar-room, together with Dan Moriarity, and quick to reach his conclusions, he saw that it was the Moriarity he wanted, accompanied by some one who had come to see Cook.