“I guess I’m bad—worse than I thought I was—my head’s going round,” mumbled Billy Kane. “You’ll have to help me, Whitie.”
“Sure, I will!” returned Whitie Jack encouragingly. He slipped his arm through Billy Kane’s. “Youse just buck up, Bundy! An’ don’t youse be afraid to throw yer weight on me. ’Taint far, an’ we’ll make it all right.”
Billy Kane, his object accomplished, leaned not lightly on Whitie Jack. Occasionally, as he walked along, he staggered and lurched, playing up his rôle—but only when the street in his immediate neighborhood was clear, and he ran no risk of attracting attention to himself and his companion!
It was not far, a few blocks; and then Whitie Jack, still unsuspectingly acting as guide, was helping Billy Kane down the half dozen steps of one of those cellar-like entrances to the basement of a low building in the middle of a block.
The building seemed to be a store of some kind, but it was closed, the dingy front window dark, and in the none too well lighted street Billy Kane could not make out exactly what it was. At the bottom of the steps they halted—before a locked door—and for an instant again that grim, desperate smile twisted Billy Kane’s lips. And then he laughed shortly, as his free hand fumbled in the pockets of the stolen coat.
“Kick it in, Whitie!” he growled. “I haven’t got the key. I lost my coat.”
“Nothin’ doin’!” said Whitie Jack complacently. “I got de goods, ain’t I? Wot d’youse think!”
From his pocket Whitie Jack produced a bunch of what were evidently skeleton keys; and, trying first one and then another, finally opened the door. His flashlight played through into the interior, and indicated a chair that stood before a table.
“Youse go over dere an’ sit down, an’ get yer coat an’ shirt off, an’ leave de rest to me,” he directed.
Billy Kane, lurching again, stumbled into the chair, as Whitie Jack, closing and locking the door, located an incandescent that hung from the ceiling, and switched on the light.