With a spring, quick on the instant,
Jimmie Dale was upon Klanner's back, hurling the man to the floor. The
tongue-flame of a revolver split the black over his head; there was the
deafening roar of a revolver shot almost in his ears that blotted out
for an instant all other sounds--and then came the shouts and cries
again in an access of terror and now the rush of feet--a blind stampede
in the darkness for the exits. Another shot from the gunman, as though
to make his work doubly sure, followed the first--but now some of the
fear-stricken crowd had come between them, plunging, falling, tripping
over tables and chairs, seeking the rear exit.
"Quick!" Jimmie Dale breathed in Klanner's ear. He was half lifting,
half dragging the man along. "Quick--get your feet, man!"
There was a surging mob around them now, pushing, fighting madly to
reach the door; and, as Klanner regained his feet, they were both swept
forward, and, lunging through the door, were precipitated out into the
lane. And here, wary of a riot call that had probably already been rung
in by the patrolman on the beat, the crowd was taking to its heels and
dispersing in both directions along the lane.
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