"You can keep your watch, Thorold; I haven't
got the same lay as our friend Jake here, and that sort of thing is too
hard to get rid of to make it worth while. I'll take these, and that's
all." He whipped the pile of letters and papers into his pocket. "You
see, with a man of your profession, there is always the chance of there
being something valuable amongst--"
Jimmie Dale never finished the sentence. With a sudden, low, tigerish
cry, Thorold heaved the end of the table upward between himself and
Jimmie Dale--and, quick as a cat, as Jimmie Dale staggered backward,
leaped from behind it.
"Get him, Jake! Get him, Jake!" he cried. "He won't _dare_ to fire in
here for the noise. Get him, you fool, he--"
But Jimmie Dale was the quicker of the two. A vicious left full on the
point of Thorold's jaw stopped the man's rush--but only for the fraction
of a second. Thorold, recovering instantly, flung his body forward, and
his arms wrapped themselves around Jimmie Dale's neck. And now, old
Jake, screeching like a madman, was circling around them, snatching,
clawing, striking at Jimmie Dale's face and head.
Thorold was a powerful man; and at the first tight-locked grip, as they
swayed together, trained athlete though he was himself, Jimmie Dale
realised that he had met his match.
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