THE LITTLE CAT AND THE BIG MOUSE
The light was stronger, though still gray and thin. It was the light of
an unsunlit November day filtered through a small square of snow-drifted
glass into a chilly garret. The light alone was enough to drop a man's
heart to the depths; but it was not the only thing that depressed Harvey
P. Banks. He was anxious, cold, and hungry. He was sickened with disgust
of himself and hate of Captain Wigmore. His head ached, his neck and
shoulders were sore. To add to all this he could now see the face and
eyes of his jailer by the cheerless light. The sight was not one
calculated to dispel his anxiety or warm his blood. The eyes gleamed
balefully up from the gloom of the stairway, with a green gleam in them
like the eyes of a cat watching its helpless prey. In front of the eyes
showed the black barrel of the rifle.
"How long do you intend to keep up this farce?" inquired Banks.
"I can stand it as long as you can," was the crisp reply.
"Very likely; but I don't see that I have any say in the matter just
now."
"You are wrong, my big friend. You can have your liberty--qualified
liberty--this minute if you wish. All you have to do is swear to me, on
your honor as a Christian and a gentleman, that you will never mention
this little adventure to a living person. You must invent some story for
Rayton and set out for New York to-night. You must drop this feeble idea
of yours of playing the detective. In short, you must swear to mind your
own business in the future and leave me and mine alone."
"I'll see you in hell first!" cried the sportsman. "I am on your trail,
and I'll stick to it. You'll pay heavily for this."
Wigmore chuckled. "Pay?" he said. "Pay? You forget, you big slob, that I
am banker in this game--and I am not the kind of banker that pays."
"What do you think you are going to do with me?" asked Banks, with
outward calm.
"Lots of things," replied Wigmore. "I will reduce your flesh, for one
thing; and your fat pride for another. I'll make you whimper and crawl
'round on your knees. But just now I'll request you to come downstairs.
Since you have broken the door of that room, I must give you another."
"I hope the other room will be an improvement on this."
"Yes. A very comfortable room."
"And what about breakfast?"
"You will have a cup of tea in half an hour--if you behave yourself in
the meantime."
Banks laughed uncertainly.
"See here, captain, don't you think this joke has gone far enough?" he
asked.
"Not at all," replied Wigmore. "My joke has just begun. Yours ended very
quickly, on the floor of my sitting room--but that was your own fault.
You are a blundering joker, Banks. You should have made sure that I was
not at home before you went round shaking all the doors, and then
crawled through the window. But that is a thing of the past, now, and so
beyond mending. I hope you will derive more entertainment from my joke
than you did from your own."
Banks had no answer to make to that. He fisted his big hands and
breathed heavily.
"I must ask you now to step back to the farther wall of your room," said
Wigmore.
Banks hesitated for a moment, then backed across the threshold and
across the little room until his shoulders touched the farther wall.
"Stay there until I give you the word," said the old man.
Then face and rifle barrel vanished, and, at the same instant, Banks
moved forward noiselessly and swiftly, lifted the couch in his strong
hands, and dropped it down the dark well of the staircase. It crashed
and banged against the wooden steps and the plaster walls; and before
its clattering had ceased the big sportsman himself was halfway down the
stairs. Halfway--and then he halted and recoiled, clutching at the cold
walls! The couch had been a second too slow in following Wigmore, and
Banks a second too slow in following the couch. The captain stood at the
bottom of the stairs, a foot beyond the wreckage of the couch, laughing
sardonically and presenting the muzzle of the rifle fair at his
captive's waist.
[Illustration: "THEN HE HALTED AND RECOILED, CLUTCHING AT THE COLD
WALLS!"]
"That was a false start," he said. "But I was expecting it,
fortunately."
Banks sat down on a dusty step, trembling violently. He felt
sick--actually sick at his stomach--with rage, chagrin, and terror of
that ready rifle and the sinister face behind it. The eyes of the old
man were more terrifying than the menacing black eye of the weapon. The
gleam at their depths was scarcely human.
"Well?" asked Banks, at last, weakly. He passed a gloved hand across his
forehead. "Well? What are you going to do?"
"That depends on you," said the captain. "If you throw furniture at me
every time I turn my back, I'll be forced to knock you out again and tie
you up. I can't risk being killed by you, for my life is valuable."
"Do you intend to hit me again with the sandbag?" asked the New Yorker
thickly.
"No, I don't mean to take that risk again," replied the other. "Another
crack like that might kill you--and I don't want to kill you just yet,
unless I have to. Perhaps I won't kill you at all, my dear fellow. I
may--of course; but I don't think so at the moment. I am whimsical,
however--a man of quick and innumerable moods. However, I do not expect
to thump you again with the sandbag. I have this rifle--for serious
work--and this queer-looking little pistol for the joking. It is a
chemical pistol--quite a new invention. I have tested it, and found it
to be all the manufacturers claim for it. Don't move! You can see and
hear perfectly well where you are! If I discharge it in your face, at a
range of twenty feet, or under, it will stun you, and leave you stunned
for an hour or more, without tearing the flesh or breaking any bones.
The thing that hits you is gas--I forget just what kind. It is pretty
potent, anyway--and I don't suppose you are particular as to what
variety of gas you are shot with. It is a fine invention, and works like
a charm. I am quite eager to test it again."
"Don't! Don't! Great heavens, man, have you gone mad?" cried Mr. Banks.
Old Wigmore raised the odd, sinister-looking pistol in his left hand.
"I don't think it hurts very much," he said. "Feels like being
smothered, I believe. Of course the shock may be quite severe at such
close range as this."
Banks closed his eyes. He was less of a coward than most men; but to sit
there on the narrow stairs, chilled and helpless, and wait for the
discharge of an unknown weapon in his face was more than courage and
nerves could stand.
"Shoot!" he screamed. "Shoot, and be done with it!"
He cut a queer figure, humped there bulkily, in his great fur coat, with
the fur cap pulled low about his ears, his eyes shut tight, and his big
face colorless with fatigue and apprehension--a queer, pathetic, tragic
figure. He waited for the explosion, every sense and every nerve
stretched till his very skin ached. His mind was in a whirl. The
thumping of his heart sounded in his ears like the roaring and pounding
of surf.
"Shoot! Shoot!" he whispered, with dry lips and leathern tongue.
And still he waited--waited. At last he could bear the strain no longer.
He uttered a harsh cry, stumbled to his feet, and opened his eyes,
leaning one shoulder heavily against a wall of the staircase. A gasp of
relief escaped him. Wigmore had retreated, and now stood several yards
away from the bottom step. The muzzle of the rifle was still toward his
victim, but his left hand, gripping that terrible, mysterious, little
weapon, was lowered to his side. He chuckled. His face looked like that
of a very old, very unhuman, and very goatish satyr.
"Wipe your eyes, my dear Banks," he said. "I won't hurt you, you poor
little thing. Dry your eyes, and come down the rest of the way. I'll
stand here, at the head of these stairs, while you toddle into that
room. Then I'll lock the door, which is very strong, and get you your
cup of tea. Come along! Come along! I haven't the heart to hurt such a
white-livered whimperer."
For a moment the big sportsman glared at him, contemplating a mad rush,
at the risk of a bullet through his breast--but only for a moment.
Something in the old man's leer told him that the finger on the trigger
would not hesitate, the muzzle would not waver. To attack now would be
suicide. He realized that he was at the mercy of a madman.
"I'm coming. I'll be mightly glad of the tea," he said, with a painful
attempt at a smile.
He made his way falteringly to the bottom of the steps, across the hall,
and into the room indicated by the old man. All the fight and all the
strength had gone out of him--for the time being, at least. The terrible
play on the stairs had taken more stamina out of him than a day's march
through a tangled wilderness, with a seventy-pound pack on his
shoulders. He staggered to the bed, and sat down dizzily on the edge of
it. Old Wigmore stood on the threshold, leering.
"I hope you like the room," he said. "I spent most of the night in
fixing it up for you."
"Thanks. It looks fine," replied Banks. And it really was fine, he
noticed, gazing around with reviving hope. There was a window--a real
window--in the wall. He could soon attract attention from that window,
or let himself out of it by a rope made of bedclothes. He had read of
that dodge a dozen times. The old fellow was mad certainly; but there
did not seem to be much method in his madness, after all. Banks turned
his face away so as to hide a wan smile.
"Sit where you are, my boy, and I'll bring your tea in a minute," said
the old man.
Then he stepped back and closed the door. Banks continued to sit on the
bed and gaze around the room, uncertain whether to go to the window now
or wait until Wigmore had brought the tea and again retired. He did not
want to bungle things by being in too great a hurry. With a little
patience and cunning on his part, his mad old jailer would soon be in
his power. He decided to wait where he was. The bed was soft, and he was
woefully tired. He turned sideways, threw his feet up, and sank head and
shoulders back upon the tempting pillows.
With a sharp click, followed by a soft thud, the middle of the bed sank
to the floor, and the bulging sides folded inward upon the astonished
Mr. Banks. He shouted and struggled; but his head was lower than his
heels, and his arms were pinned firmly against his sides. At last he
twisted over until he lay on his left shoulder, and his right arm was
clear. In another minute he would have been out of the ridiculous trap;
but suddenly Captain Wigmore appeared, slipped a rope around the
imbedded ankles, and bound them tight; and another around the free arm,
and made it fast to the head of the bed. Then the old man stood and
leered down at him.
"You are a terrible fellow for smashing furniture," he said. "You have a
very violent temper. Out you come! Out you come!"
With incredible strength, the old man gripped the big, floundering
sportsman, and yanked him from the bed, where he lay helpless, with his
feet tied together, and his right wrist fast to the bed.
"There you are!" remarked Wigmore briskly. "Now, will you be good? Sit
up, while I fix the bed. Sit up, do you hear? Then I'll give you your
breakfast. You don't deserve it--but I have a tender heart."
He prodded Banks with the toe of his boot. Banks sat up without a word.
His rage clouded his mind and deadened his tongue. Wigmore dragged the
heavy bedding to the floor, and gazed with admiration at the bedstead.
All the slats, save a few at the foot, were hinged in the middle.
"My own invention," said the old man. "Very ingenious, don't you think?
But it has done its work, so let it lie. Here are some blankets for you,
Banks. Hope you don't object to sleeping on the floor."
He tossed an armful of blankets into his prisoner's lap, and walked
briskly from the room. He was back in half a minute, carrying a tray,
which he placed on the floor within reach of Bank's free hand.
"Help yourself," he said. Then he went out, shutting the door behind
him.
Mr. Banks sat motionless for a full minute, staring at the tray. A small
teapot stood there, with steam rising from its spout. It was flanked on
the right by a small jug of cream, and on the left by an empty cup. In
front squatted a round dish under a cover. At last Banks pulled off his
fur cap, and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow with the palm of
a grimy hand.
"I suppose the old devil has doped it," he whispered, with a sigh. "Of
course he has! What's the good of supposing?"
With an effort, he turned his face away from the teapot and the covered
dish. He shifted back a little, so that the rope did not pull on his
right arm. He gazed intently at the window, door, walls, and ceiling.
"I must plan a way to get out," he muttered. "I must plan a way to fool
this old fiend."
But he could not concentrate his thoughts, for most of them were with
his heart--yearning toward the teapot and the covered dish. At last he
gave way, and allowed his gaze to rest again upon the silent tempters.
His left hand went out to them, then came slowly back. He sighed,
unfastened his coonskin coat, and cursed old Wigmore huskily, but
heartily. Again the hand advanced. He lifted the teapot and poured some
of the steaming amber liquid into the cup.
"It looks all right," he murmured. "But what's the use of looking at it?
Of course the old beast has doped it! Heaven help him when I get hold of
him!"
He set the teapot down, and groaned. He told himself to turn away; to
forget the craving in his stomach; that he was not really hungry. He
assured himself that it is beneficial to go without food now and
then--for a day, or even for two days. Then he remembered having read
somewhere that smoking allays the gnawing of hunger. He produced a cigar
from the case in his pocket, and lit it fumblingly. While he smoked he
kept his eyes fixed upon the tray. Suddenly he leaned forward and lifted
the cover from the dish.
"Buttered toast!" he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that the sound of
it brought a smile to his dry lips. He replaced the cover with such
violence as to crack the dish. After smoking gloomily for another minute
or two, he again allowed his attentions to dwell upon the tea, toast,
and cream. He lifted the half-filled cup and sniffed it. Did he detect a
bitterness in the clean, faint fragrance of it, or was the bitterness
only in his imagination? He tilted the cup this way and that, searching
the clear liquid for some cloudy sign of danger. He was unsuccessful. He
sniffed it again, and this time could not detect the least suggestion of
bitterness.
"I am a fool!" he muttered. "My nerves have gone to pieces!"
With a quick hand, he slopped a little of the cream into the tea, and
raised the cup swiftly to his lips. But he did not part his lips. For a
moment he sat motionless, with the cup raised and tilted--and then, with
an oath, he replaced it on the tray, untasted. The momentary
gratification of thirst and hunger was not worth the risk. He turned his
back upon the tray, and puffed away resolutely at his cigar. He would
show the old devil that he was not entirely a fool!
Banks finished the cigar; and still old Wigmore had not returned. The
tray still remained on the floor. Banks hitched himself to the head of
the bed, and set to work with his left hand to unfasten the knots in the
rope which bound him to that cursed, ingenious bedstead. The rope was
small, and the knots were hard; but at last the outer knot began to
loosen. He paused frequently in his work to glance over his shoulder at
the door, and to hearken intently. At last he was free from the bed, but
with the length of line still hanging from his wrist. Now he crawled
across the room to the door, stood up on his bound feet, and tried the
handle. The door was locked, as he had expected. Seated with his broad
back against it, he worried the cord at his ankles with both hands
until its three stubborn knots were undone. Then, moving on tiptoe, he
carried the heavy bedstead across the room, and stood it solidly against
the door.