And
then, behind, the Wowzer's voice shrieked out:
"Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jim! Put a hole in him, de--"
Yells, a chorus of them, took up the refrain--then the rush of following
feet--and the passageway seemed to racket as though a Gatling gun were
in play with the fusillade of revolver shots. But Jimmie Dale was at
the opening now--and, like a base runner plunging for the bag, he flung
himself in a low dive through and into the open cellar beyond. He was
on his feet, over the boxes, and dashing up the stairs in a second. The
door above opened as he reached the top--Jimmie Dale's right hand shot
out with clubbed revolver--and with a grunt Chang Foo went down before
the blow and the headlong rush. The next instant Jimmie Dale had sprung
through the tea shop and was out on the street.
A minute, two minutes more, and Chinatown would be in an uproar--Chang
Foo would see to that--and the Wowzer would prod him on. The danger was
far from over yet. And then, as he ran, Jimmie Dale gave a little gasp
of relief. Just ahead, drawn up at the curb, stood a taxicab--waiting,
probably, for a private slumming party. Jimmie Dale put on a spurt,
reached it, and wrenched the door open.
"Quick!" he flung at the startled chauffeur. "The nearest subway
station--there's a ten-spot in it for you! Quick man--QUICK! Here they
come!"
A crowd of Chinese, pouring like angry hornets from Chang Foo's shop,
came yelling down the street--and the taxi took the corner on two
wheels--and Jimmie Dale, panting, choking for his breath like a man
spent, sank back against the cushions.
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