REFUGE IN THE RIVER.
Although he did not fully understand the rather surprising affair,
Policeman Dennis Maloney was now satisfied that his sweetheart, Maggie
Swazey, had been outrageously imposed upon by the scrubby-bearded,
red-faced, blue-coated, brass-buttoned individual he had accidentally
discovered there in the kitchen. What part the three boys had taken in
the affair he could not understand. In fact, he was decidedly bewildered
and vexed, but, at the same time, his fighting blood was aroused and he
vowed terrible vengeance on Patrick McGee if he could but once get his
hands on that deceiving scoundrel.
With a furious imprecation, Maloney gave Bigelow a fierce kick in the
ribs, which brought another howl of pain from the lips of the fat chap.
Scrambling to his feet, the policeman dashed toward the door unmindful
of the imploring shriek which came from Maggie’s lips. Forth into the
darkness he hustled in pursuit of the disguised and fleeing lad,
swearing the most terrible vengeance as he vanished.
Scuttling along the alley, Dick paused to peer out upon the street. He
did not fancy Maloney would pursue him closely, and therefore he was
startled by the sound of thudding feet and turned to see the dark figure
of the policeman charging upon him.
“Cæsar’s ghost!” gasped the boy. “Here’s where I take Tucker’s advice
and hit the high places.”
He knew it would be a serious thing for him if he fell into the hands of
the enraged officer. Confident of his ability to outrun Maloney, he
laughingly skipped away. Behind him the policeman raised a great
shouting.
“Stop thafe! stop thafe!”
Looking back, Merriwell saw the bluecoat, club in hand, covering ground
with wonderful speed.
The boy dodged to the right at the first corner. He collided with
another policeman who had heard Maloney’s shouts, and was rushing to
discover the meaning of the uproar. Down they went.
“What in blazes——”
Dick stopped the policeman by savagely interrupting:
“What do you mean by interfering with me? Why didn’t you nab that
thief?”
“What thief?”
“The one who just dodged round this corner.”
“I didn’t see any one,” said the surprised officer.
“Then you were asleep!” snorted Merriwell, scrambling up just as Maloney
came panting and shouting round the corner.
“Stop thafe! stop thafe!” howled Dennis.
“Stop thief! stop thief!” shouted Dick, taking up the cry and leading
Maloney by barely a few yards in the breathless rush down the street.
Into the very heart of town they raced, and the crowds upon the lighted
street scattered to give them room. People stared in wonderment, seeking
to catch a glimpse of the fleeing thief whom those two policemen seemed
pursuing. A crowd of men and boys fell in behind Maloney, joining in the
cry of, “Stop thief!”
“There he is, the spallpane!” panted Dennis, pointing at Dick, who was
gradually increasing the distance between them. “Shtop him! shtop him!”
But no one fancied that he meant the blue-coated person who seemed to be
leading this wild and desperate pursuit of the unseen thief. Pointing
ahead, Dick took up the cry of the Irish cop.
“There he is! there he is! Stop him! stop him!”
At the very first opportunity Merriwell made haste to escape from the
more-crowded and better-lighted streets. Round first one corner and then
another he whisked. Behind him came the hounds in full cry, led by the
persistent Irishman, who seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that
already he was far off his beat.
“Evidently Maloney will follow me as long as there’s the slightest
chance of overtaking me,” decided Dick. “I’ve got to shake him and that
mob.”
Nevertheless, not until the vicinity of the Quinnepiac was reached did
the boy feel that he had succeeded in his purpose. Resting beside the
river a short distance above the drawbridge, Merriwell chuckled over his
adventure.
He did not remain long undisturbed. Through the darkness two skulking
figures moved toward him, and, fancying they were pursuers searching for
him there, he hastily crouched beside a pile of timbers.
The two figures paused a short distance away and began speaking in low
tones. Peering through the gloom, the boy made out that each carried a
bundle in his hand.
“I’m going to chuck my outfit in right here,” said one.
“I wanted to burn mine,” whispered the other hoarsely, “but I couldn’t
find an opportunity.”
“Hello, hello!” thought the hidden boy. “I fancy I know those chaps. I
wonder what it is they’re going to chuck into the river. My curiosity is
too much for me.”
Suddenly he leaped out and was right upon them before they became aware
of his presence.
“Surrender, ye raskills!” he cried. “Don’t thry to resist an officer av
the law.”
With gasps of dismay, both dropped their bundles and took to their
heels, running as if their very lives depended upon it.
“Thanks,” laughed Dick, picking up the bundles. “Now I’ll find out what
you were so anxious to dispose of.”
Returning to the lumber pile, he settled himself on a stick of timber
and began to open the bundles, both of which had been tightly rolled and
securely tied with cords. The knots bothered Dick, and he felt in vain
through the pockets of his unusual clothing in search of a knife.
“Of course I haven’t a knife,” he muttered. “Didn’t think to put my own
in a pocket of this suit. I’ll have to untie those knots.”
It was a long and tiresome task, but he finally succeeded with one of
the bundles which was untied and spread out on the ground at his feet.
“Clothing of some sort,” he decided, “but it’s too dark to see just what
it is. I need a match.”
Once more he searched through his pockets, finally discovering the
brimstone end of a broken match.
“This will have to do,” he said, as he carefully struck the match on his
trousers leg.
Shading it with his hands, he threw the light upon the clothing
outspread before him. It was a masquerade suit of crimson.
“Ah-ha!” muttered Dick. “I think I have seen this rig before. I think it
was worn by Satan the night the old warehouse burned, and if I’m not
greatly mistaken I recognized the voice of Satan just now.”
He was startled by the sound of footsteps, and, turning to glance over
his shoulder, discovered three dark figures rapidly coming down upon
him. The match was dropped.
One of the three figures had appeared between the boy and a distant
electric light. He saw it was a policeman.
“Cornered!” thought Dick. “Jingoes, if they catch me with this rig, I’ll
be in a bad scrape! I can’t deny that I was at the warehouse, and it’ll
look as if I was concerned in robbing the costumer’s shop.”
Catching up the crimson suit and the bundle, he sought an opening by
which he could escape, but the trio had spread out and were hemming him
in so that there seemed absolutely no chance to dodge them.
“Begobs, we have him now!” shouted an exultant voice—the voice of Dennis
Maloney.
“Not yet!” cried the boy.
Splash!—he flung himself into the cold Quinnepiac. Freeing himself of
the bundle and the crimson masquerade suit, the boy struck out into the
river.
“Come on!” he challenged. “Follow me! Catch me! I dare you!”
“Come back here, ye spallpane!” roared Maloney, pausing at the water’s
edge and vainly shaking his club at the dark head which bobbed like a
cork on the surface of the river.
“In a minute—I don’t think,” was the answer. “Why don’t you come in for
me?”
“He’ll have to come ashore somewhere,” said another one of the trio.
“The current is carrying him down toward the bridge. Keep watch of him.
We’ll nab him when he tries to get out.”
“I’m afraid they will,” thought the boy. “I’m still in a nasty scrape.
What’ll I do?”
Suddenly he flung up his arms and uttered a painful cry for help.
“Cramps! cramps!” he shouted, floundering and splashing in the current
which was sweeping him toward the bridge. “Help! quick! Ah——”
Down he went, the water seeming to cut short that last gasping cry for
assistance.
“The poor devil is drowning,” chattered one of the officers.
“He’s gone!” cried another.
“And Oi nivver aven put the weight of me hand on him,” muttered Maloney
regretfully.
The dark current swept on into the black shadows, beneath the bridge,
but they watched in vain for the fugitive to rise to the surface.
“He’s gone,” muttered Dennis. “Oi’ll howld no grudge. May the saints
rest his sowl.”