Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brass
buttons, blue coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky,
gray-mustached, gray-haired man in plain clothes.
Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officers
burst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously past
his ear, and dropped to the ground--into encircling arms!
"Ah, no, you don't, my bucko!" snapped a hoarse voice in his ear. "Keep
quiet now, or I'll crack your bean--understand!"
But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for Jimmie
Dale, who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight of
the lurking form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement he
wriggled loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point of
the other's jaw, sending the man staggering backward--and Jimmie Dale
ran.
A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostly
occupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in all
directions, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him,
Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down the
street, running like a deer.
Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrill
CHEEP-CHEEP! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding the
pavement in pursuit.
Down the block Jimmie Dale raced.
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