Nearly twisting his head off, he peered apprehensively into the shadows. The gas jet continued to flicker and flare, and, once when it died down and he fancied it was going out, his heart nearly stopped beating.
Sque-e-e-eak!
Tucker’s hair stood at the sound, but in a twinkling he felt something like relief, realizing at last that the noise was made by a rat. This explained the mysterious rustling he had heard.
“If I ever find out for certain just who those fellows were, I’m going to murder the bunch of them,” decided Tommy. “Talk about the tortures of the Inquisition! This is worse! What’s that?”
Something slipped past like a flitting shadow on the cement floor. It was a scampering rat, but it had given the captive an awful start.
“I don’t like rats,” thought Tucker. “They’re nasty creatures, and sometimes they’re dangerous. Let’s see, I think it was in ‘Les Miserables’ I read about the sewer rats of Paris, big, hungry, creatures ready to attack a man. Goodness, I hope these rats are well fed! They’re getting altogether too friendly.”
For he had seen two or three others flit past him. He was electrified by a shrill squeal close behind his chair, followed by a scampering rustle.
“Deuce take ’em!” he mentally exclaimed. “They’ll be climbing over me in a minute.”
Indeed it seemed so, for one big fellow advanced boldly before him and sat up to inspect his appearance. Tucker longed to hurl something at this old fellow, who had a full set of grayish whiskers.
The example of the old rat emboldened others, and within a few moments they were frisking about Tucker’s feet.