The wind blew and blew. It flapped across the river and disported itself
up through the town, shaking and tearing at things—gates, chimneys, and
wire-hung smokestacks. It shrieked and roared through alleys and around
corners, and at last it careened up Main Street, on the very stroke of
midnight. There it contended with an uncertain-minded person, whom it
found trying to navigate.
This was Mr. Chester Van Nesten, and he was supposed (by himself only,
for no one else on earth knew anything at all about it) to be going
somewhere. Not home, however, for Mr. Van Nesten was opposed to going
home in dark and windy weather at twelve o’clock at night. “M’ dear,”
he had said impressively when he thought of home, “lodge
meet’n—in-itiation—unfit s’ciety la’ies!” And that, several times
repeated, seemed to clinch the argument.
Having formed a resolution not to go to his home until such time as the
streets and buildings, which whirled about him so erratically, should
find themselves once more in their proper positions, he decided to go to
his office and there spend the night.
At length, after a series of wonderful tacks, he succeeded in steering
up to the darkened building in which were situated the offices of the
firm of Hidgepit & Van Nesten.
Pausing before the stairway entrance of the old building, Mr. Van Nesten
rattled at the door-knob.
“Locked!” he muttered as he fumbled uncertainly in his pockets.
The keys were forthcoming in due time, and then, in a spasmodic manner,
he applied himself to the task of opening the door. He succeeded. Then,
closing the door after him, he slouched and stumbled along till he
encountered a staircase. Mr. Van Nesten paused to rest and consider this
staircase, and then, breathing very hard, he clutched an invisible
bannister and began by painful degrees to ascend.
Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s office was on the second floor, near the center
of the building. Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s composing-room being in front
and Hidgepit & Van Nesten’s bindery in the rear. Mr. Van Nesten arrived
at last at the office. He stumbled in and endeavored to light the gas.
But he had no matches—none—and after solemnly expressing appreciation of
this mystery, he groped about in the dark for a time, thumping himself
uncertainly against things, till he found a certain small
leather-covered couch or lounge that reposed in a corner of the room
with its head against a big iron safe. Mr. Van Nesten, breathing audible
relief, sat down to rest.
His father-in-law and senior partner, Mr. Hidgepit, owned this lounge,
and was in the habit of reclining on it daily (Sundays excepted) after
lunch, while he meditated and encouraged digestion.
Van Nesten was very well satisfied, then, and sat quite still for a few
moments while he contemplated the equity of things. He removed his coat
and hat, but, finding no place to put them, he held them for a moment
and then flung them from him. He endeavored to consider the iniquity of
his coat and hat—and it ended by his head falling forward again, and
then he dropped completely over and went sound asleep on the couch.
Some hours later Mr. Van Nesten awoke—a little gradually—in confusion
and with reluctance. But a blinding stream of light was in his eyes and
a figure—a grotesque and crouching figure, with a strip of black cloth
across its face—was before him. This he became more or less vaguely
aware of, and then came the pressure of something cold and hard against
his right temple. He flashed wide awake in an instant—and perfectly,
perfectly sober.
“Don’t move,” said the burglar. And Mr. Van Nesten didn’t. The burglar
ran a deft hand over him to detect the presence of possible fire-arms,
and then he stepped back.
“Get up!” he said sharply.
Van Nesten stood up. He was a young man, of good physique, and now that
the first shock was over, did not feel greatly afraid. He looked
steadfastly at the eyes which showed through the holes in the black
mask. The burglar regarded him steadily, his pistol in his hand. He was
taking stock of the situation.
“You belong here?” he demanded at last.
“I do,” said Van Nesten.
“Then”—the pistol was raised to a level with the young man’s head—“you
open that safe!”
Van Nesten winced. It is no light matter to look into the muzzle of a
big revolver. He experienced a quick impulse to duck—to fend his face—to
dodge and run, but he controlled himself and remained perfectly quiet.
“Don’t say you can’t!”
The burglar’s tone was threatening.
“I won’t, though!” said Van Nesten. He was surprised at his own quiet,
firm tones. “I won’t, though!” he repeated.
The silence then was electrical. The two men, tense as steel, stood
glaring at each other.
“You won’t!” The burglar’s attitude seemed to be more tense. “You
won’t!”
“I would—to save my life,” said Van Nesten, “but it’s not necessary. If
you kill me you’ll have murder as well as house-breaking to answer
for—besides being no nearer to getting the safe open. And it might make
a noise,” he added.
The burglar stood for an unpleasant, concentrated moment, and then he
seemed to grow a little less intense. He relaxed and uttered a curse.
“Throw up your hands!” he snapped.
“I’ll do that,” said Van Nesten, and he did.
The burglar put down his lantern and produced from his pocket a piece of
stout cord. He leaped into a chair. “Come here!” he said, with vicious
curtness. “Backwards!”
Van Nesten, turning about, endeavored to comply.
“Hands together!” said the burglar, when he had him satisfactorily
stationed. Van Nesten’s hands came together; and the burglar rapidly
wound round and round them at the wrists with an end of his cord. The
cold nozzle of his revolver pressed lightly against Van Nesten’s neck.
“No monkey business!” the intruder cautioned by way of general
admonition, as he drew it away. And then he tied Van Nesten’s hands.
He stepped down from the chair then and directed Van Nesten to climb up
in his place. Then he bound the young man’s ankles together. He was a
strong burglar and he bound them exceedingly well.
This done, he backed off and regarded his work. Van Nesten stood with
his back to him, in a perfectly helpless position. He could not even get
to the floor without severe risk of injury. The burglar walked round and
faced him.
“I ain’t going to gag you,” he growled. “You understand if you make a
noise what it will be—a personal risk to me? You understand that?”
“I understand,” said Van Nesten. “That’s the reason I’m tied. It won’t
be necessary to gag me.”
The burglar grunted.
“It’s also unnecessary to keep me standing up here,” went on Van Nesten
boldly. “Take hold of my elbow,” he said, “and steady me so I can jump
down.”
The burglar glared at him an instant in amazement, and then suddenly
jerked himself forward and seized him by the arm.
“Jump!” he said roughly.
When Van Nesten came down to the floor again the burglar gave him a
whirl about, and pushed him over into the chair. They regarded one
another steadily, then the burglar turned away.
“Keep your face shut now, will you?” he said, and went to pick up his
lantern again.
He approached the big iron safe as a man approaches his chosen work. Van
Nesten watched him making his arrangements—inspecting, tapping, and
fingering about—as deftly, accurately, and readily as a skilful artisan.
He never paused for an instant and his tools seemed ready to his hand.
Finally he prepared something with a few sharp clicks, and then he
dropped down to his knees and began to work—drilling.
Van Nesten did not at all enjoy his situation, but the pain from his
thongs soon gave way to a numbness, and then he did not suffer so much.
The only sound for several moments was the dull grind of the burglar’s
drill.
Suddenly the burglar stopped his work and began to snuff at the air. He
laid down his tools and raised his face toward the ceiling.
“By God!” he cried excitedly, and sprang to his feet. “What’s this
smoke?”
Van Nesten not only smelled it, but saw that it was pouring into the
room through the open door.
“This place is afire!” said the burglar.
Like a flash Van Nesten’s mind went back and he remembered himself
drunkenly ascending those stairs and lighting matches to try and find
the way. He remembered now that when he had entered the office there had
been no match left in his pocket. He gave a great wrench at his
thongs—but they held him fast. Van Nesten groaned.
The burglar was down on the floor again, gathering up his implements. He
was defter and quicker now than ever, and Van Nesten, in a cold sweat,
sat watching him.
The burglar’s tools clinked and jingled together as he stowed them away.
Then he suddenly leaped to his feet and faced Van Nesten.
“Shoot me—strangle me—do something!” cried Van Nesten. “For God’s sake
don’t leave me here like this!”
But the burglar had not hesitated an instant. His hand had been in his
pocket even as he rose from the floor, and a knife gleamed as he
advanced with a rush.
“Stab me, then!” said Van Nesten wildly. “Stab me, then! Don’t leave me
here to roast!”
“What!” cried the burglar. He recoiled from those words as suddenly as
if he had been hit. An upward motion tore the mask from his face, and
aghast he glared at Van Nesten.
“My God, man!” he said “what you think I am?”
The rising smoke eddied between them.
But the burglar recovered himself almost instantly.
“You’re scart,” he said, “and I don’t blame you.”
With two deft strokes of his knife he severed the cords that bound Van
Nesten’s hands and feet. Then he stepped back and thrust the knife in
his pocket.
“It’s up to you,” he said. “How are we going to get out of here?”
Van Nesten passed a hand across his forehead and staggered to his feet.
He stepped to the door and the burglar quickly followed.
“Wait!” said Van Nesten. He flashed the burglar’s lantern up and down
the hall. It was thoroughly full of smoke. His quickening mind took in
the whole situation.
“Come on!” he said.
He took the burglar by the hand and led him swiftly through the hall.
“Up?” asked the burglar.
Van Nesten opened a door and they passed out into the bindery among
stitching-machines and great stacks of unfolded paper.
“Good thing you brought this lantern!” remarked Van Nesten, leading
swiftly on. They encountered another hallway and more smoke, then a
flight of stairs, which they mounted two steps at a time.
“Can you open a door?” asked Van Nesten, when a locked one barred their
way. The burglar grunted and applied himself, while Van Nesten held the
light. Neither spoke, but hot clouds of smoke were coming up faster and
faster, and the sound of a crackling roar was beneath them. The fire was
coming on with a rush.
The door opened, and they burst into Greddin’s paper-box factory, full
of combustibles.
“This way!” cried Van Nesten, taking the burglar’s hand again. They ran
through tangled aisles of machinery, tables, and benches, the thick
smoke all about them. Then Van Nesten reached a window and he and the
burglar seized it together and threw it up. Shouts and the sounds of
confusion in the street came up to them now, and in the distance clanged
the gong of an approaching fire-engine. But there was no time to lose.
“Go ahead!” said Van Nesten. “It’s one at a time now.”
Then the burglar, with his head and shoulders through the window, drew
back, white and shaking.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “have we got to jump across there?”
It was a perfectly easy leap of five feet to the roof of the next
building, with a twenty-four inch drop to make it certain. “I can’t do
it!” the burglar groaned.
Van Nesten stared at him, appalled at his sudden fright. “You’re crazy!”
he cried. “It’s perfectly easy. Go on, man! Be quick!”
The burglar clutched the window-sill, looking out with wild eyes.
“I can’t!” he muttered despairingly. “I was always this way. I can’t do
it!”
“You’ve got to!” said Van Nesten. “By God! I’ll throw you over!”
But the burglar shrank away. His nerve was utterly gone.
“Save yourself,” he said. “It’s no use. I’ll never make it!”
Van Nesten glared about him. Then he cried:
“Quick, man, your knife! Some belting!” He leaped to the top of an
embossing-machine which stood near the window and seized hold of the
two-inch leather belt which connected with its overhead shafting. The
burglar had his knife ready and thrust it up to him. Van Nesten slashed
at the belt, and it fell in twain. He leaped to the floor, bearing an
end of it with him.
“Fasten it here—quick!” Van Nesten said, circling a projecting piece of
the heavy machine. “When I jump across throw me the other end of it. You
can cross on that.”
Van Nesten clambered to the window-frame and made his leap. His feet
crunched on the gravel roof of the next building.
“Come on! That belt!” he cried, rushing back to the edge of the roof.
“Come on!”
The burglar had already thrown it. It curled in a twisted mass at Van
Nesten’s feet, and he seized it up and retreated back on the roof with
the end of it. In vain he looked for a place to fasten it—hither and
thither he darted, and the burglar, his white face showing through the
smoke, his crouching body pressed down upon the window-frame, watched
him.
Van Nesten wrapped the belt around his body and stretched it taut. There
were twenty feet or more of it, and though the leverage would be against
him, he could, by keeping to the far end of it, easily sustain the
burglar’s weight for a distance of five feet from the window-frame on
which it rested.
“I’ve got you!” cried Van Nesten. “Come on!”
The burglar crept up on the window-sill, his feet curled beneath him.
Slowly, slowly his hand led out along the piece of belting—he reached to
the center and part of the space that lay between him and safety, but
still, distrusting, despairing, he clung to the window-ledge. Then he
lurched suddenly forward, and swung by his hands over the abyss.
Van Nesten, braced as he was, took a step forward under the quick
strain. The belt sagged, and the burglar sunk to a level with the roof.
Its cornice was almost in his face. Terror was upon him as he hung, and
he could not move. Then the belt slipped: Van Nesten could not hold it.
The burglar gasped and clutched at the edge of the roof. Van Nesten,
tangled in the belting, thought that he had fallen, and he hurried
forward. The white face was beneath him and his own wild eyes stared
into it.
Van Nesten, breathing heavily, bent over and took the burglar by the
wrists. Terror now was upon them both. Slowly Van Nesten drew up the
burglar who hung inert. It was not till his waist had passed the point
of safety that the burglar exerted himself. Then he made a sudden
frantic effort, and, wrenching himself free from Van Nesten, he crawled
out upon the roof.
He lay flat for a moment from sheer exhaustion, then he sat up.
“By God!” said the burglar, passing his hands over his face, “I don’t
want nothing more like that.”
Van Nesten, feeling suddenly weak, had sat down also. Now he turned
toward the burglar and burst out laughing.
The burglar gave Van Nesten a quick look.
“What’s to do with you and me?” he asked.
Van Nesten remained cheerful.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Say,” he immediately added, “got anything you
want to burn up? The firemen’ll be here in about a minute, you know.”
The burglar took the hint. He stood up and cast certain things through
the window to the room they had just left.
“Chuck that gun over there, too,” said Van Nesten, with just an
authoritative twang to his voice. The burglar, giving him another quick
look, complied.
The burglar stood a little awkwardly.
“Well, let’s get out of here,” said Van Nesten, springing up. “It’s
getting hot.”
Together they traveled over the roof toward the fire-escape.