“Come out, Goyle,” he said sharply.
There was no response.
Jimmy pointed to one of the ruffians in the room.
“Open that door,” he commanded.
The man slunk forward and pulled the door open.
“Come out, Goyle,” he growled, then stepped back with blank astonishment stamped upon his face. “Why—why,” he gasped, “there’s nobody there!”
With a cry, Jimmy started forward. One glance convinced him that the man spoke the truth, and then——
There were keen wits in that crowd—men used to crises and quick to act. Bat Sands saw Jimmy’s attention diverted for a moment, and Jimmy’s pistol hand momentarily lowered. To think with Bat Sands was to act. Jimmy, turning back upon the “Lot,” saw the life-preserver descending, and leapt on one side; then, as he recovered, somebody threw a coat at the lamp, and the room was in darkness.
Jimmy reached out his hand and caught the girl by the arm. “Into that cupboard,” he whispered, pushing her into the recess from which Goyle had so mysteriously vanished. Then, with one hand on the edge of the door, he groped around with his pistol for his assailants. He could hear their breathing and the creak of the floorboards as they came toward him. He crouched down by the door, judging that the “kosh” would be aimed in a line with his head. By and by he heard the swish of the descending stick, and “crash!” the preserver struck the wall above him.
He was confronted with a difficulty; to fire would be to invite trouble. He had no desire to attract the attention of the police for many reasons. Unless the life of the girl was in danger he resolved to hold his fire, and when Ike Josephs, feeling cautiously forward with his stick, blundered into Jimmy, Ike suddenly dropped to the floor without a cry, because he had been hit a fairly vicious blow in that portion of the anatomy which is dignified with the title “solar plexus.”