A bundle of rags huddled in the doorway of one of the shaky old houses
took unto itself life and height. In a gargoyle face snaky eyes
balefully glistened at the sight of prey. The boys, who in a moment of
indecision had stopped within earshot of this hideous, hidden thing,
were about to resume their way through this wretched street, in the
scant hope of finding some clew to their whereabouts under the feeble
glow from the dimly distant lamp-post.
If there had ever been any gendarmes bold enough to regularly patrol
this gruesome thoroughfare, these heroes were certainly not in evidence
now. They must either have gone directly to war or were on guard in
some more prosperous locality.
In fact, this dilapidated neighborhood appeared to be generally
deserted, for even of prowlers not a one up to the minute had given a
sign of open movement in the long square.
There had been a lamplighter at the crossing, however, and that was
something on which to hang a belief that there might be more of his
kind further on.
“Say, Henri, I don’t believe graveyards were mentioned in the
directions Gilbert gave you.”
“This is no joke, Jimmy, and you would never have seen the like in
Paris if it wasn’t for the war. To save my life, though, I can’t
imagine where all the people that belong here could have gone.”
“There are some that we might not care to meet after dark,” suggested
Billy.
As they talked the boys were groping their way over the rough cobbles
toward the one promise--meaning the lamp-post.
As they passed, single file, the blank front of a tenement where the
crooked street curved inward, a crouching, cat-like something leaped
from the rear upon Henri’s shoulders, and clawing fingers sought his
throat.
Henri wildly struggling to break the strangle hold of the wiry arms,
and bewildered by the shock of sudden assault, made no outcry, and
Billy, next in line, did not realize for an instant or two what had
happened to his comrade.
He felt a loose stone under his foot in the worn and broken pavement,
in a second made a weapon of it, and poised alert to strike at the
assailant of his chum. The streak of lamplight was so flickering and
uncertain, and Henri being dragged further and further into the deepest
shadow of the overhanging doorway--the web of the human spider--that
Billy feared to risk a chance blow.
In the meantime, Jimmy and Reddy, warned by quick ears, had turned to
face the shuffling charge of another creature of the night. There were
more of the spiders, it seemed.
Billy found an opening to lay a sounding whack with the flat stone on
the back of the writhing thing that hung upon the shoulders of his
friend, and such was the force of the blow that Henri was freed for a
moment from the horrid embrace.
He struck out blindly for himself and knocked the bundle of rags into a
shrunken heap upon the pavement. The fallen creature uttered an acute,
piercing sound, and slinking shapes responded, front and rear.
Reddy had used a French close-fighting trick, and planted a kick under
the chin of the assailant with whom Jimmy and himself were contending,
and the English boy made his count with a straight-from-the-shoulder
right blow right on the beak of another onrushing shape.
“Together, boys! Together!”
Billy’s fighting blood was up.
The four closed in, dashed forward several yards and backed against the
door of the tenement just around the curve and where the street ran
straight. This gave them the advantage of all the light the crossing
lamp-post afforded. It was not much, but as Jimmy panted, it “helped
some.”
The house where the boys presented determined front to the now swarming
human spiders was apparently of a far better class than the tumble-down
hovels in the row around the curve--a contrast so often presented in
the big cities. It rose to a height of four stories, of brick with
stone trimmings. But every shutter in the front was tightly closed, and
if occupied there was no light nor sound to indicate the fact.
Hemmed in by the menacing circle, the boys mounted heel by heel, never
turning their heads, the stone steps of the house, rising to the wide
and solid oak door with a brass knocker projecting from its panels.
Here was the last stand against the spider crew--no way of retreat.
The ragged gang were muttering ugly threats in the mixed language of
the slums, and knives were gripped in every hand. They were preparing
for an overpowering rush upon their prey.
The boys knew that without other defense than their fists and their
feet they had no show at all to stop an attack in force.
“Give the high note for help, Reddy.”
Henri had heard the little Frenchman’s “high note” in the hills of the
Meuse, and it was a ringer.
Reddy set up a shriek in the still watches of the night that would have
shamed a steam whistle.
“Secours! Secours!” (Help! Help!)
The immediate response was the cast of a knife, which whizzed close to
the head of the shrieker and struck, shivering, in a door panel.
“I’d give something big for a gun,” offered Billy when repeated yells
for help in chorus had counted for nothing.
“Here they come!” shouted Henri.
“Let ’em think we’re still in the ring.”
Billy followed the words by heaving the paving stone, which he had
retained for the finish, into the thick of the leaping spiders.
Pressed against the door, the boys gave up all hope of escaping the
knives of their assailants.
Jimmy as a last duty kept the brass knocker thumping like a bass-drum.
Suddenly the door swung back, the boys fell into the opening like a
cluster of ninepins scattered by a bowling ball, and as quickly the
door slammed shut in the faces of the baffled spiders. The boys heard
the settling sound of heavy bolts in their sockets.
The hall into which the four had tumbled with so little ceremony was
sable black to the sight, and with the settling of the bolts as silent
as the grave.
“If this isn’t about the rummest go yet, I don’t know what,” was
Billy’s stage whisper, as he rubbed a bruised elbow.
“If there’s any next to this, lead me to it quick.”
Jimmy was finding a deal of swift action since he joined issue with our
Aviator Boys.
“You have cause to be on your knees to the Power above that you were
delivered from that _canaille_ (mob) outside. They would have left only
your bones for the rats to knaw.”
Thus were the boys solemnly addressed, in deep voice, by some person
unseen, but near them, in the dark recesses of the hall.
The speaker was then revealed as he opened a door of a lighted room.
A man of almost imperial bearing, but white-haired and slightly bent
with age, wearing a skull cap of velvet and a long study gown of the
same material.
The room into which the boys were invited was typical of the scholar,
the open books on the table, under the shaded lamp, and the hundreds
of volumes displayed in wall-cases.
Unknown to them, the boys stood in the presence of one of the most
eminent philosophers of the age.