be convenient for keeping watch.

That evening Chippy ate his supper so slowly and thoughtfully that his
mother asked him what was on his mind.

'It's all right about yer place, ain't it?' she asked anxiously.

'Rather,' replied Chippy, waking up and giving her a cheerful nod.
'This ain't a job like old Blades's. Do yer work, and yer all right at
Elliott Brothers'.'

'Yer seemed a-moonin' like,' said Mrs. Slynn.

'Thinkin',' returned Chippy briefly. 'I got a bit o' scoutin' to do
to-night as 'ull keep me out pretty late, so don't get a-worryin',
mother, an' sendin' people to see if I've dropped into the "Old Cut."'

The Old Cut was a dangerous, unprotected creek, where more than one
resident of Skinner's Hole had been drowned in darkness and fog, and
its name was proverbial on local lips.

'Tek care o' yerself, my boy,' said Mrs. Slynn. 'I don't know what I
should do without yer.'

Chippy waved his hand with an air of lofty protection, and went on with
his supper.

Towards ten o'clock he left the house, and went down a quiet byway to
Quay Flat, and as soon as he got well on the Flat and away from the
gas-lamps, he could see little or nothing. But Chippy had haunted the
Flat all his life, and could find his way across it blindfold. He
headed steadily forward, and a few minutes brought him to the spot
where the huge bulk of the warehouse buildings stood at the river's
edge, black against the sky.

He now commenced a stealthy patrol of the walks, every sense on the
alert, and creeping along as softly as possible. The warehouse
occupied an isolated position on the quay. The river front was now
washed by only a few feet of water, for the tide was nearly out; but
this side was only approachable by boat. A rude pavement of
flag-stones ran round the other three sides, and along this pavement
the Raven meant to hold his patrol march.

The march came to an end almost as soon as it had begun. Chippy turned
an angle of the walls, and pulled up dead. He could hear footsteps a
short distance away. He flitted off to the shelter of a pile of rusty
anchors and iron cables which he knew lay within twenty yards of where
he stood. He found his cover, and crouched behind it. He had barely
gained it when a flood of light swept the pavement he had just left,
and heavy boots tramped forward.

'Huh!' grunted Chippy to himself, 'they've got a bobby on the job. No
call for a boy scout here. I might as well be off ho