"No-el! No-el! No-el! No-el!" rang out the bells, as McAllister left the
club at twelve o'clock and started down the avenue.
"No-el! No-el!" hummed McAllister. "Pretty old air!" he thought. He had
almost forgotten that it was Christmas morning. As he felt his way
gingerly over the stone sidewalks, the bells were ringing all around
him. First one chime, then another. "No-el! No-el! No-el! No-el!" They
ceased, leaving the melody floating on the moist night air.
The snow began to fall irregularly in patchy flakes, then gradually
turned to rain. First a soft, wet mist, that dimmed the electric lights
and shrouded the hotel windows; then a fine sprinkle; at last the chill
rain of a winter's night. McAllister turned up his coat-collar and
looked about for a cab. It was too late. He hurried hastily down the
avenue. Soon a welcome sight met his eye--a coupé, a night-hawk,
crawling slowly down the block, on the lookout, no doubt, for belated
Christmas revellers. Without superfluous introduction McAllister made a
dive for the door, shouted his address, and jumped inside. The driver,
but half-roused from his lethargy, muttered something unintelligible and
pulled in his horse. At the same moment the dark figure of a man swiftly
emerged from a side street, ran up to the cab, opened the door, threw in
a heavy object upon McAllister's feet, and followed it with himself.
"Let her go!" he cried, slamming the door. The driver, without
hesitation, lashed his horse and started at a furious gallop down the
slippery avenue.
Then for the first time the stranger perceived McAllister. There was a
muttered curse, a gleam of steel as they flashed by a street-lamp, and
the clubman felt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his cheek.
"Speak, and I'll blow yer head off!"
The cab swayed and swerved in all directions, and the driver retained
his seat with difficulty. McAllister, clinging to the sides of the
rocking vehicle, expected every moment to be either shot or thrown out
and killed.
"Don't move!" hissed his companion.
McAllister tried with difficulty not to move.
Suddenly there came a shrill whistle, followed by the clatter of hoofs.
A figure on horseback dashed by. The driver, endeavoring to rein in his
now maddened beast, lost his balance and pitched overboard. There was a
confusion of shouts, a blue flash, a loud report. The horse sprang into
the air and fell, kicking, upon the pavement; the cab crashed upon its
side; amid a shower of glass the door parted company with its hinges,
and the stranger, placing his heel on McAllister's stomach, leaped
quickly into the darkness. A moment later, having recovered a part of
his scattered senses, our hero, thrusting himself through the shattered
framework of the cab, staggered to his feet. He remembered dimly
afterward having expected to create a mild sensation among the
spectators by announcing, in response to their polite inquiries as to
his safety, that he was "quite uninjured." Instead, however, the glare
of a policeman's lantern was turned upon his dishevelled countenance,
and a hoarse voice shouted:
"Throw up your hands!"
[Illustration: "Throw up your hands!"]
He threw them up. Like the Phoenix rising from its ashes, McAllister
emerged from the débris which surrounded him. On either side of the cab
he beheld a policeman with a levelled revolver. A mounted officer stood
sentinel beside the smoking body of the horse.
"No tricks, now!" continued the voice. "Pull your feet out of that mess,
and keep your hands up! Slip on the nippers, Tom. Better go through him
here. They always manage to lose somethin' goin' over."
McAllister wondered where "Over" was. Before he could protest, he was
unceremoniously seated upon the body of the dead horse and the officers
were going rapidly through his clothes.
"Thought so!" muttered Tom, as he drew out of McAllister's coat-pocket a
revolver and a jimmy. "Just as well to unballast 'em at the start." A
black calico mask and a small bottle filled with a colorless liquid
followed.
Tom drew a quick breath.
"So you're one of those, are ye?" he added with an oath.
The victim of this astounding adventure had not yet spoken. Now he
stammered:
"Look here! Who do you think I am? This is all a mistake."
Tom did not deign to reply.
The officer on horseback had dismounted and was poking among the pieces
of cab.
"What's this here?" he inquired, as he dragged a large bundle covered
with black cloth into the circle of light, and, untying a bit of cord,
poured its contents upon the pavement. A glittering silver service
rolled out upon the asphalt and reflected the glow of the lanterns.
"Gee! look at all the swag!" cried Tom. "I wonder where he melts it up."
Faintly at first, then nearer and nearer, came the harsh clanging of the
"hurry up" wagon.
"Get up!" directed Tom, punctuating his order with mild kicks. Then, as
the driver reined up the panting horses alongside, the officer grabbed
his prisoner by the coat-collar and yanked him to his feet.
"Jump in," he said roughly.
"My God!" exclaimed our friend half-aloud, "where are they going to take
me?"
"To the Tombs--for Christmas!" answered Tom.