The houses, built wall to
wall, flat-roofed, seemed to offer an open course ahead of him--until
a lane or an intersecting street should bar his way! But they were not
quite all on the same level, though--the wall of the next house rose
suddenly breast high in front of him. He flung himself up, regained his
feet--and ducked instantly behind a chimney.
The crack of a revolver echoed through the night--a bullet drummed
through the air--the Skeeter and his gang were on the roof now, dashing
forward, firing as they ran. Two shots from Jimmie Dale's automatic, in
quick succession cooled the ardour of their rush--and they broke, black,
flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too.
And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened. A dull-toned roar,
as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of
slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses,
cries, shouts, and yells--and high over all the shrill call of the
police-patrol whistle--and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's
revolver shots--the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed
allies of the law!
Twice again Jimmie Dale fired--then crouching, running low, he zigzagged
his way across the next roof. The bullets followed him--once more his
pursuers dashed forward. And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like stone
now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and with
his gun checked their rush for the third time.
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