“Here,” said the sheriff, handing him the tear gas bomb. “See if you can toss this thing down that chimney. If you can that’ll take all the fight out of those babies!”
Bill took careful aim. He had the ludicrous thought that he was back on a basketball floor, with the aperture in the chimney a basketball hoop. He let go the bomb; it skimmed over the top, struck the other side, rebounded and disappeared within the black interior.
“Good boy!” commended Sheriff Marston. “Now watch what happens!”
A vapor suddenly curled up from the chimney. There came sounds of coughing and spitting and more cursing.
“They can’t stick it out in that small shack,” said the sheriff, confidently. “If they do, they’ll suffocate! That tear gas bomb had enough strength to clear a hall.”
In less than five minutes the shack door was wrenched open and the ringleader of the bandits staggered out, tears streaming down his face, one hand to his throat, the other extended toward the grayish heavens. He was followed by two gasping, stumbling comrades who breathed in the clear, cold air sobbingly. The posse closed in with guns drawn. In another minute the three bandits were submitting to handcuffs as Bill, hurrying below, helped Phil and Max back up on the ledge.
“Quite a skiing party you brought back with you,” grinned Phil.
“Talk about the thrills of winter time!” Max added.
“Thrills!” whistled Bill. “Say—who knows—maybe we’ve started something! You’ve heard of the motorcycle squad, the armored car, the mounted police and the sky patrol ... but here’s a new one—the ski police!”
The two chums laughed.