CHAPTER XXII.BURGLAR HUNTING.
It was an uncanny business wandering about a dark house at night; it is especially so if it be a strange house and if one knows for certain that there is a desperate burglar creeping about somewhere in it. Many a man has shrunk from that task; but the three had been bemoaning a lack of excitement, and now here it was. So they had no right to complain.
Mark waited a moment for the others to join him and then side by side they stood and peered into the darkness. From what they had seen of the room when the man struck a light it was a dining-room with a flight of stairs running up from it. Up those stairs the man had gone; and a few moments later the three cadets were standing hesitatingly at the foot of them.
“He may have a gun,” whispered Chauncey.
Texas reached around to his hip pocket instinctively at that; he groaned when he realized his defenseless condition.
“That’s the worst o’ these yere ole Eastern ways,” hemuttered. “Ef a feller had bought these yere pants in Texas more’n likely he’d ’a’ found some guns in ’em.”
Texas had but a few moments more to growl however, for Mark stepped forward, suddenly and started up the steps.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have it over with. He can’t shoot all of us at once.”
Slowly they crept up the stairs, pausing at every step to listen. They reached the top and peering around found a dimly-lit hall without a sign of life about it.
“Perhaps he’s in one o’ them aire rooms,” whispered Texas. “I——”
“S’h!” muttered Mark.
His exclamation was caused by a slight noise on the floor above, a faint tread.
“He’s upon the next floor!” gasped the three. “Shall we——”
They did; Mark led the way and with still more trembling caution they stole on, crouching in the shadow of the banisters, trying to stifle the very beatings of their hearts and breathing fast with excitement.
Up, up. There were twenty-one stairs to that flight; Mark knew that, because they stopped a long while oneach listening for another clew to the burglar’s whereabouts, and trembling as they imagined him peering over at them.
Not a sign of him did they see or hear, however, until they reached the level of the floor, where they could lean forward and look around the balustrade. First they heard a sound of heavy breathing, as from a sleeper. That was in the rear room, and Mark, peering in, saw the person clearly.
There was a faint light in the room, a light from a dimly-burning gas jet. The room was apparently deserted except for the sleeper. It was a woman, for Mark could see her hair upon the pillow. But where was the burglar?
The answer came with startling suddenness, suddenness that precipitated a calamity. The room next to the rear one was dark and silent until, without a moment’s warning, all at once a light flashed out. And there was the burglar. The reckless villain had lit the gas, so sure was he of his safety. And he was standing now in the middle of the floor, stealthily taking off his coat before starting to work.
Naturally that sudden flash of light startled the three;it startled them so much that Chauncey leaped back with a gasp of alarm; and a moment later, his heel catching in the end of his huge green overcoat, he tripped and staggered, clutched wildly at nothing, and with a shriek of alarm tumbled backward, rolling over and over with a series of crashes that made the building shake. And then there was fun.
In the first place, as to the burglar; he started back in horror, realizing his discovery; in the second place, as to the woman; she sat up in bed with the celerity of a jack-in-the-box, and an instant later gave vent to a series of screams that awoke the neighborhood.
“Help! Help! Burglars! Murder! Thieves! Fire! Help!”
In the third place, as to the cadets. Their first thought was of Chauncey, and they turned and bounded down the steps to the bottom. They found him “rattled” but unhurt, and they picked him up and set him on his feet. Their second thought was of the burglar, that ruthless villain who perhaps even now was making his escape by a window. The thought made them jump.
“Forward!” shouted Mark.
And to a man they sprang up the stairs, two or threesteps at a time, shouting “Burglars!” as they went. They reached the top and bounded into the room, where they found the man in the very act of rushing out of the door. Mark sprang at him, seized him by the throat and bore him to the ground. And the two others plunged upon the pile.
“Hold him! Hold him! Help! Help!” was the cry.
Meanwhile the woman had arisen from the bed, very naturally, and was now rushing about the hall in typical angelic costume, occasionally poking her head out of the windows and shrieking for burglars and help, using a voice that had a very strong Irish brogue.
In response to her stentorian tones help was not slow in arriving. A crash upon the door was heard; the door gave way, and up the stairs rushed two men.
“Help us hold him!” roared Texas, who was at this moment trying his level best to push the criminal’s nose through the carpet. “Help us to hold him!”
But to his infinite surprise the two newcomers made a savage rush on him, and in an instant more the true state of affairs flashed over Texas.
“They’re friends of the burglar!” he cried. “Whoop! Come on, thar!”
The two men were not slow to accept his invitation. They added their bodies to the already complicated heap of arms and legs that were writhing about on the floor, and after that themêléewas even livelier than ever. Even the woman took a hand; her Irish blood would not let her stay out of the battle long, and she pitched in with a broom, whacking everything promiscuously.
What would have been the end of all this riot I do not pretend to say; I only know that Mark was devoting himself persistently to the task of holding the burglar underneath him, in spite of all manner of punches and kicks, and that Texas was dashing back and forth across the room, plowing his way recklessly through every human being he saw when the “scrap” was brought to an untimely end by the arrival of one more person.
This latter was a policeman, a policeman of the fat and unwieldy type found only in New York. He had plunged up the stairs, club in hand, and now stood red and panting, menacing the crowd.
“Stop! stop!” he cried. “Yield to the majesty of the la-aw.”
Every one was glad to do that, as it appeared; the battlingceased abruptly and all parties concerned rose up and glared at each other in the dim light.
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the “cop.”
If he had realized the terrible consequence of that question he would never have asked it. For each and every person concerned sprang forward to answer it.
“There’s the burglar!” cried Mark, pointing excitedly at the original cause of all the trouble, who was wiping his fevered brow with diligence. “There’s the burglar! Arrest him!”
“Yes, yes!” roared Texas. “Grab him! I’ll tell you how it was——”
“Howly saints!” shrieked the woman, “don’t let them get away! They’ve broken me head, in faith! An’ look at me poor husband’s oi!”
“Me a burglar!” roared the person thus alluded to by Mark, shaking one fist at Mark and the other at the officer. “So it’s a burglar they call me, is it? So that’s their trick, be jabbers! An’ a foine state of affairs it is when a man can’t come into his own house without being called a burglar, bad cess to it. Bridget, git me that flat-iron there an’ soak the spalpeen! Be the saints!”
During that tirade of incoherent Irish the three cadetshad suddenly collapsed. The situation had flashed over them in all its horror and awfulness. The “burglar” lived in the house! The woman was his wife! And they were the burglars!
The three gazed at each other in consternation and sprang back instinctively. The policeman took that for a move to escape and he whipped out his revolver with a suddenness that made Texas’ mouth water.
“Stop!” he cried.
His command received even more emphasis from the fact that another policeman rushed up the stairs at that moment. The three stopped.
“See here, officer,” said Mark, as calmly as he could. “This is all a mistake. We aren’t burglars; we are perfectly respectable young men——”
“You look like it,” put in the other, incredulously.
Mark’s heart sank within him at that. He glanced at his two companions and realized how hopeless was their case. New rags and tatters had been added by the battle. Disheveled hair, and dirt and blood-stained faces made them about as disreputable specimens as could be found in New York. Respectable young men! Pooh!
“I could explain it,” groaned Mark. “We thought thisman was a burglar and we followed him in. We aren’t tramps if we do look it. We are——”
And then he stopped abruptly; to tell that they were cadets would be their ruination anyway.
“You’re a lot of thaves an’ robbers! Sure an’ thot’s what yez are!” shouted the irate “burglar,” filling in the sentence and at the same time making a rush at Mark.
“Come,” said the policeman, stopping him. “Enough of this. You fellers can tell your yarn to the judge to-morrow morning.”
Mark gasped as he realized the full import of that sentence. It was two o’clock and their train left in an hour or two—their last chance! And they could tell their story to the judge in the morning!
The policeman jerked a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and stepped up to Mark. The latter saw that resistance was hopeless and though it was torture to him he held out his wrists and said nothing. Texas, having no gun, could do nothing less. Chauncey was the only one who “kicked,” and he kicked like a steer.
“Bah Jove!” he cried. “This is an insult, a deuced insult! I won’t stand it, don’t cher know! Stop, I say. Iwon’t go, bah Jove! I’ll send for my father and have every man on the blasted police force fired! I——”
The snap of the handcuffs and the feeling of the cold steel subdued Chauncey and he subsided into growls. The officer took him by the arm, saying something as he did so about an “English crook.” And then the three filed downstairs, the indignant and much-bruised Irishman following and enlivening the proceedings with healthy anathemas.
That walk to the station house the three will never forget as long as they live, it was so unspeakably degrading; it was only a short way, just around the corner, but it was bad enough. Idlers and loafers fell in behind to jeer at them, scarcely giving them chance to reflect upon the desperately-horrible situation they were in.
Mark was glad when at last the door of the station house shut upon them to hide them from curious eyes. There was almost no one in here to stare at them, but a sleepy sergeant at the desk; he looked up with interest when they entered, and were marched up before him.
“What’s this?” he inquired.
“Burglars,” said one of the officers, briefly.
Chauncey’s wrath had been pent up for some ten minutes then, and at that word it boiled over again.
“I’m no burglar!” he roared. “I tell you, you fools, I’m no burglar! Bah Jove, this is an outrage.”
“Faith an’ yez are a burglar!” shouted the Irishman, likewise indignant. “An’ faith, Mr. Sergeant, the divils broke into me house and near broke me head, too, bad cess to ’em. An’ thot, too, whin Oi’d been to the club an’ were a-thryin’ to git to sleep without wakin’ me wife. An’ faith she’ll be after me wid a shtick, thot she will, to-morrer!”
“We aren’t burglars, I say!” protested Chauncey. “We thought he was a burglar. We’re cade——”
Here Mark gave him a nudge that nearly knocked him over; he looked up and caught sight of a spruce young man with pencil and notebook working diligently. It was a reporter and Chauncey took the hint and shut up.
“Name?” inquired the sergeant, seeing him quiet at last.
“My name, bah Jove?” exclaimed the other. “Chauncey Van Ren——”
Again Mark gave him a poke.
“Peter Smith,” said Chauncey.
“And yours?”
“John Jones,” said Texas.
“And yours?”
Mark glanced at the others with one last dying trace of a smile.
“Timothy O’Flaherty,” said he. “You understand,” he added, to ease his conscience, “they’re all fictitious, of course.”
The sergeant nodded as he wrote the names.
“We’ll find the right ones in the Rogues’ Gallery,” he remarked sarcastically.
That fired Chauncey again, and he went off into another tirade of abuse and indignation, which was finally closed by the officers offering to “soak him” if he didn’t shut up. Then they were led off to a cell—number seven, curiously enough. And as the door shut with a clank the three gasped and realized that it was the death knell of their earthly hopes.