CHAPTER XI.

THE RAID.

Chick was thinking at electric speed as he hesitated for a second in the middle of the floor.

He was in a bad fix, and he knew it. Only, it was not his habit to cry over spilled milk. What he wanted to do was to hit on some method of meeting the crisis.

If he could have got down to the front yard of the house he was in, he would have done that. But there was no time for him to unlock and open the door he had just secured. He would be caught before he could pass through.

Even if there were any possibility of his escaping from the room in that way, the stranger, who was already opening the other door, would see that it was still open, for Chick certainly would not have time to close it.

This may seem a great deal for Chick to think in the instant required for a person to open a door after pushing down the latch. But a whole lifetime has been reviewed in a fraction of a minute, and Chick’s brain was working like a dynamo in this moment of deadly danger.

He must do something, and quickly. He did.

At the very moment that the door opened, he sprang to the stove and crouched down between it and the wall. He had noticed, from the first, that a space of a few feet had been left there, so that the heat of the stove would not set fire to the wall.

This was the one possible place of concealment in the gaunt, bare room, and it was not much of a one, at that. And it was hot—cruelly hot!

Squeezing himself into as small a space as he could, he peeped cautiously around the edge of the stove from the deep shadow that helped to conceal him.

“Holy mackerel!” he muttered. “This is a bright prospect. That man looks as if he were here for all night!”

It was the gigantic fellow he had seen working at the roller press in the room overhead. He seemed to have no fear of anybody being present besides himself, as he crossed the room to the table, and turned up the gas.

“What’s he going to do?” thought Chick. “Just as I supposed. He’s settling down for a long stay. And I’m roasting at the back of this stove. Great Scott! I feel as if I were done to a turn already. He’ll get the smell of me cooking before long. I can smell myself.”

The big man had taken up one of the plaster molds and was trimming it off with a knife. He worked as composedly as anybody might who was following a perfectly legitimate trade.

“Whew!” burst from Chick’s lips.

It was only an expression of pain and discomfort, and it was not loud; this was fortunate, for the big man started as if he believed he heard something, but was not quite sure.

He stared about the room for a moment, during which period Chick huddled back into the heat of the recess behind the stove and prepared himself for a fight, but seemed satisfied that he had not heard anything except in his fancy.

“All kinds of funny noises can be heard in the night in an old house like this,” he remarked aloud, as he resumed his work. “I’ll be glad when this night’s work is over, all the same. I’m pretty nearly all in.”

“So am I,” thought Chick. “I don’t believe I can stand this another half minute. I’m almost touching the hot stove, and the heat is something fierce. I hope the chief will understand that I’ve had a tough time of it. A fellow likes to get credit for an experience like this.”

His clothing began to scorch, the flesh of his face and hands felt seared, in spite of all his efforts to protect them, and in addition to this torture, was the sickening effect of the poisonous fumes which were given off at every crevice of the stove.

“I’m about all in,” murmured Chick, as he tried to find a position a little farther away from the stove, without betraying himself. “I can begin to understand how people have felt who were burned at the stake. Hello! Here comes that big lummox to put on more heat.”

Indeed, the big man was approaching, but it was apparent that he had no suspicion of anybody else being in the room. He whistled softly as he came forward.

After tending the fire—for which Chick inwardly cursed him—he stirred the pot of metal with a steel rod. By this time Chick was compelled to crouch closer to the awful stove, to keep out of view of the big man.

“Good thing there is a black shadow back here,” thought Chick. “But for that he must have seen me.”

The fellow went back to his table and resumed work there. His manner was that of one who had a long night’s work ahead of him, and Chick had difficulty in repressing a loud groan.

“If the chief and the police would come!” he prayed. “That’s about my only hope!”

He listened eagerly to catch the slightest sound from the hall leading to the stairs to the cellar. If he could have heard anything, he would have felt pretty sure that the raiding party had arrived.

Suddenly he believed he could make out the shuffling of feet in the hall. He was not sure, but he thought the sound of feet, as well as of men whispering, came to him.

“If this big man at the table hears it, too, then there will be a circus. I’ll take a wallop at him myself, so long as I know I have friends to see that I get a square deal.”

Chick did not want any more than an equal chance. In fact, he was willing to give some odds. But he did not think he was called upon to give cards and spades, big and little casino, and everything else, to the enemy.

But it seemed now as if he must take a big, sporting chance.

Just as he was gathering the little strength he had left, to make a desperate attempt to overcome the giant at the table, he was sure he had heard a noise in the hall. There was no mistake about it now. Not only in the hall, but upstairs!

The man at the table glanced upward, with a quick start of alarm. From his throat came a low, angry oath.

“The cops!” he added savagely.

Clutching the long knife he had been using for trimming the plaster molds, he dashed to the door by which he had entered and hurled himself out of the room.

“Well, I’m glad they’ve come!” gasped Chick. “It may be too late to do me any good, but they’ll get even for me if I have to pass it up. By Grimshaw, I believe I’m dying!”

Things were reeling around him, and it was only by coming in contact for an instant with a corner of the hot stove that he was saved from swooning. He did not realize it at the time, but doubtless that was the way the sudden sting acted.

Crawling out from behind the furnace, he staggered to the door. He wanted to be in the mix-up, if only he could contrive to keep on his feet.

“I won’t follow that fellow,” was his half-conscious, inward resolve. “But I’ll take it the other way—if only I can get the door open before I drop. This room is full of sulphur, and it seems to be getting thicker.”

This was not really the case, but Chick had inhaled so much of the deadly vapor that he felt as if he could not stand any more, and each moment it had a worse effect upon him.

Fortunately, he contrived to unlock the door, and lurched into the hallway beyond.

The stairs to the cellar were before him. Avoiding them, he made his way toward where fresh air was streaming in at the open yard door.

“Air!” he panted.

As he reached the doorway, he uttered an ejaculation of relief—and found himself in the grip of a pair of powerful arms. He had been seized by one of the policemen.

“All right, Bob!” shouted the officer, giving Chick a shake as involuntarily he attempted to pull away. “I have one of them!”

“Let go, you dub!” gasped Chick. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Sure I do. But I don’t want the story of your life. Tell that to the captain when I get you to the station.”

He felt a row of knuckles grinding into the back of his neck. Under ordinary conditions, when he was himself, Chick could have made some sort of fight. Probably he would have done so, even though he knew it was useless to oppose a good policeman in the performance of his duty.

As it was, however, being sick and faint, and having hardly any strength, he suddenly collapsed, like an empty sack, in the hands of the blue-coated captor.