Ah Cum patrolled the length of the boat innumerable times, but never letting his glance stray far from the gangplank. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. But I'm thinking of asking Josh Durkin. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. In spite of his care, he came in contact with a man, who, endeavouring to grasp him, cried, in the voice of Mendez, "Who goes dere? Shpeak! or I fire!" No answer being returned, the Jew instantly discharged his pistol, and though the shot did no damage, the flash discovered Sheppard.
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