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 the boy 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?”