You don't owe anybody any money--that bucket-shop was in
the game with the rest, and--" Cries, voices, were coming from above
now; and Jimmie Dale, like a flash, turned from the boy, leaped for the
safe, wrenched the door open, reached in with both hands, and, snatching
up an armful of the contents, spilled books and papers on the floor. He
was back beside the boy in an instant. "Listen! You heard some one in
here as you entered the house--you came into the room--_you caught me in
the act_--you fired--you missed. And now--_fight_! Fight--pull yourself
together--fight. They are coming!"
He caught the boy around the waist, and the two, locked together, reeled
this way and that about the room. A chair, deliberately kicked over by
Jimmie Dale, crashed to the floor. The cries drew nearer. Footsteps came
racing madly down the stairs--and then the door of the library burst
open, and David Archman, in pajamas, dashed through the doorway, and
without a second's hesitation, made for the two struggling forms--and
Jimmie Dale, releasing his hold upon the boy, suddenly sent the other
staggering backwards full into David Archman, checking David Archman's
rush--and, turning, sprang for the window, snatched up his package,
hurled himself over the sill, dropped to the ground, and, racing for the
fence, climbed it, and made the lane, just as a shot, from David
Archman, no doubt, was fired from the window.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290