"Got it?" he demanded eagerly.
"No--curse it!" gritted Birdie Lee. "My fingers seem to have lost their
touch--I ain't had much practice for the last five years up there in
Sing Sing!"
"Well, then, 'soup' it!" grunted Slimmy Jack. "You could blow the roof
off, and no one would be the wiser with that racket downstairs. We can't
waste all night over it."
"What are you going to 'soup' it with?" Birdie Lee flung back gruffly.
"We didn't bring nothing. You said--"
"I know I did!" A sullen menace had crept suddenly into Slimmy Jack's
voice. "I said you could open an old tin can like that with your hands
tied--and so you can. Try it again!"
Jimmie Dale's fingers stole inside his shirt, and into a pocket of the
leather girdle, and brought forth a black silk mask. He slipped it
quickly over his face. Birdie Lee was at work once more. It was about
time to play his own hand in the game. The Tocsin had made no mistake,
he was sure of that now, and--
Birdie Lee spoke again.
"It's no use, Slimmy!" he muttered. "I guess I ain't any good any more.
I can't open the damned thing!"
"Try it again!" ordered Slimmy Jack shortly.
"But it's no use, I tell you!" retorted Birdie Lee.
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