CHAPTER XXV.REFUGE IN THE RIVER.
Although he did not fully understand the rather surprising affair, Policeman Dennis Maloney was now satisfied that his sweetheart, Maggie Swazey, had been outrageously imposed upon by the scrubby-bearded, red-faced, blue-coated, brass-buttoned individual he had accidentally discovered there in the kitchen. What part the three boys had taken in the affair he could not understand. In fact, he was decidedly bewildered and vexed, but, at the same time, his fighting blood was aroused and he vowed terrible vengeance on Patrick McGee if he could but once get his hands on that deceiving scoundrel.
With a furious imprecation, Maloney gave Bigelow a fierce kick in the ribs, which brought another howl of pain from the lips of the fat chap. Scrambling to his feet, the policeman dashed toward the door unmindful of the imploring shriek which came from Maggie’s lips. Forth into the darkness he hustled in pursuit of the disguised and fleeing lad, swearing the most terrible vengeance as he vanished.
Scuttling along the alley, Dick paused to peer out upon the street. He did not fancy Maloney would pursue him closely, and therefore he was startled by the sound of thudding feet and turned to see the dark figure of the policeman charging upon him.
“Cæsar’s ghost!” gasped the boy. “Here’s where I take Tucker’s advice and hit the high places.”
He knew it would be a serious thing for him if he fell into the hands of the enraged officer. Confident of his ability to outrun Maloney, he laughingly skipped away. Behind him the policeman raised a great shouting.
“Stop thafe! stop thafe!”
Looking back, Merriwell saw the bluecoat, club in hand, covering ground with wonderful speed.
The boy dodged to the right at the first corner. He collided with another policeman who had heard Maloney’s shouts, and was rushing to discover the meaning of the uproar. Down they went.
“What in blazes——”
Dick stopped the policeman by savagely interrupting:
“What do you mean by interfering with me? Why didn’t you nab that thief?”
“What thief?”
“The one who just dodged round this corner.”
“I didn’t see any one,” said the surprised officer.
“Then you were asleep!” snorted Merriwell, scrambling up just as Maloney came panting and shouting round the corner.
“Stop thafe! stop thafe!” howled Dennis.
“Stop thief! stop thief!” shouted Dick, taking up the cry and leading Maloney by barely a few yards in the breathless rush down the street.
Into the very heart of town they raced, and the crowds upon the lighted street scattered to give them room. People stared in wonderment, seeking to catch a glimpse of the fleeing thief whom those two policemen seemed pursuing. A crowd of men and boys fell in behind Maloney, joining in the cry of, “Stop thief!”
“There he is, the spallpane!” panted Dennis, pointing at Dick, who was gradually increasing the distance between them. “Shtop him! shtop him!”
But no one fancied that he meant the blue-coated person who seemed to be leading this wild and desperate pursuit of the unseen thief. Pointing ahead, Dick took up the cry of the Irish cop.
“There he is! there he is! Stop him! stop him!”
At the very first opportunity Merriwell made haste to escape from the more-crowded and better-lighted streets. Round first one corner and then another he whisked. Behind him came the hounds in full cry, led by the persistent Irishman, who seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that already he was far off his beat.
“Evidently Maloney will follow me as long as there’s the slightest chance of overtaking me,” decided Dick. “I’ve got to shake him and that mob.”
Nevertheless, not until the vicinity of the Quinnepiac was reached did the boy feel that he had succeeded in his purpose. Resting beside the river a short distance above the drawbridge, Merriwell chuckled over his adventure.
He did not remain long undisturbed. Through the darkness two skulking figures moved toward him, and, fancying they were pursuers searching for him there, he hastily crouched beside a pile of timbers.
The two figures paused a short distance away and began speaking in low tones. Peering through the gloom, the boy made out that each carried a bundle in his hand.
“I’m going to chuck my outfit in right here,” said one.
“I wanted to burn mine,” whispered the other hoarsely, “but I couldn’t find an opportunity.”
“Hello, hello!” thought the hidden boy. “I fancy I know those chaps. I wonder what it is they’re going to chuck into the river. My curiosity is too much for me.”
Suddenly he leaped out and was right upon them before they became aware of his presence.
“Surrender, ye raskills!” he cried. “Don’t thry to resist an officer av the law.”
With gasps of dismay, both dropped their bundlesand took to their heels, running as if their very lives depended upon it.
“Thanks,” laughed Dick, picking up the bundles. “Now I’ll find out what you were so anxious to dispose of.”
Returning to the lumber pile, he settled himself on a stick of timber and began to open the bundles, both of which had been tightly rolled and securely tied with cords. The knots bothered Dick, and he felt in vain through the pockets of his unusual clothing in search of a knife.
“Of course I haven’t a knife,” he muttered. “Didn’t think to put my own in a pocket of this suit. I’ll have to untie those knots.”
It was a long and tiresome task, but he finally succeeded with one of the bundles which was untied and spread out on the ground at his feet.
“Clothing of some sort,” he decided, “but it’s too dark to see just what it is. I need a match.”
Once more he searched through his pockets, finally discovering the brimstone end of a broken match.
“This will have to do,” he said, as he carefully struck the match on his trousers leg.
Shading it with his hands, he threw the light upon the clothing outspread before him. It was a masquerade suit of crimson.
“Ah-ha!” muttered Dick. “I think I have seen this rig before. I think it was worn by Satan the night the old warehouse burned, and if I’m not greatly mistaken I recognized the voice of Satan just now.”
He was startled by the sound of footsteps, and, turning to glance over his shoulder, discovered three dark figures rapidly coming down upon him. The match was dropped.
One of the three figures had appeared between theboy and a distant electric light. He saw it was a policeman.
“Cornered!” thought Dick. “Jingoes, if they catch me with this rig, I’ll be in a bad scrape! I can’t deny that I was at the warehouse, and it’ll look as if I was concerned in robbing the costumer’s shop.”
Catching up the crimson suit and the bundle, he sought an opening by which he could escape, but the trio had spread out and were hemming him in so that there seemed absolutely no chance to dodge them.
“Begobs, we have him now!” shouted an exultant voice—the voice of Dennis Maloney.
“Not yet!” cried the boy.
Splash!—he flung himself into the cold Quinnepiac. Freeing himself of the bundle and the crimson masquerade suit, the boy struck out into the river.
“Come on!” he challenged. “Follow me! Catch me! I dare you!”
“Come back here, ye spallpane!” roared Maloney, pausing at the water’s edge and vainly shaking his club at the dark head which bobbed like a cork on the surface of the river.
“In a minute—I don’t think,” was the answer. “Why don’t you come in for me?”
“He’ll have to come ashore somewhere,” said another one of the trio. “The current is carrying him down toward the bridge. Keep watch of him. We’ll nab him when he tries to get out.”
“I’m afraid they will,” thought the boy. “I’m still in a nasty scrape. What’ll I do?”
Suddenly he flung up his arms and uttered a painful cry for help.
“Cramps! cramps!” he shouted, floundering and splashing in the current which was sweeping him toward the bridge. “Help! quick! Ah——”
Down he went, the water seeming to cut short that last gasping cry for assistance.
“The poor devil is drowning,” chattered one of the officers.
“He’s gone!” cried another.
“And Oi nivver aven put the weight of me hand on him,” muttered Maloney regretfully.
The dark current swept on into the black shadows, beneath the bridge, but they watched in vain for the fugitive to rise to the surface.
“He’s gone,” muttered Dennis. “Oi’ll howld no grudge. May the saints rest his sowl.”