“Jail!” He braced his weight against the pull at his wrist. “I’m not going to jail—not while Miss Hardwick’s in trouble. You may be a little stronger than I, Pinto, but I’m in better trim, and you can’t budge me.”
The policeman tore at the link, but in vain. The Phantom dropped to the floor, dug his heels into a crack between two boards, and resisted with all his might. Pinto puffed and cursed, but he might as well have tried to lift himself by his own boot straps, and his efforts were further hampered by the necessity of keeping the pistol aimed with his free hand. The glint in his captive’s eyes hinted that he was but waiting for a chance to land a blow with his fist between the policeman’s eyes.
“Say, what’s the use stalling?” argued Pinto, resorting to diplomacy while regaining his breath. “The game’s up.”
The Phantom knew it, but he was playing for time. Some unexpected turn might yet reverse the situation and give him the upper hand.
“You’re done for, and you know it,” said the policeman impressively. “Might as well give in.”
“Wrong, Pinto. You seem convinced that I’m the Gray Phantom, and you ought to know that the Phantom never gives in. I can sit here as long as you can. Don’t you think we had better compromise?”
“Compromise—your grandmother!” grumbled Pinto. “You’ll never get out of this.”
Still pointing the muzzle at his prisoner, he brought the butt of the weapon close to one of his pockets. Two fingers reached down and extracted a police whistle, and in an instant it was between his lips, giving forth a shrill blast. He waited expectantly for a few moments. Again and again the whistle shrieked, but no response came.
The Phantom grinned. “The acoustics are not all that might be desired. The windows are closed, and there are several heavy walls between here and the street. I fear, Pinto, that your lung power is going to waste.”
Disgustedly Pinto dropped the whistle. He considered for a moment, then a grim smile lit up his face.