"My God!" he screamed out. "What's--what's this!"
Clarie Deane snatched the envelope from him.
"THE GRAY SEAL!"--the words came with a jerk from his lips. He ripped
the envelope open frantically--and like a man stunned gazed at the four
blank sheets, while the colour left his face. "IT'S GONE!" he cried out
hoarsely.
"Gone!" There was a burst of oaths from Australian Ike. "Gone! Den we're
nipped--de lot of us!"
The Mope's face was like a maniac's as he whirled on Stangeist.
"Sure!" he croaked. "But youse gets yers first, youse--"
With a cry, Stangeist, to elude the blow, ducked blindly backward--into
the portieres--and with a rip and tear the hangings were wrenched apart.
It came instantaneously--a yell of mingled surprise and fury from the
three--the crash and spit of Jimmie Dale's revolver as he fired one shot
at the floor to stop their rush--then he flung himself at the window,
through it, and dropped sprawling to the ground.
A stream of flame cut the darkness above him, a bullet whistled by his
head--another--and another. He was on his feet, quick as a cat, and
running close alongside of the wall of the house. He heard a thud behind
him, still another, and yet a third--they were dropping through the
window after him. Came another shot, an angry hum of the bullet closer
than before--then the pound of racing feet.
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