“The kid’s on the Ajax,” the lad heard him say in a rough voice, “and if ever I catch him, I——”
He stopped short as he heard Jack’s footfall behind him. The next instant he turned a bloated, brutal countenance, suffused with blood, upon the boy.
Up to that instant, Jack had not connected himself with the subject of conversation. But he did now. With a quick heart-leap he had recognized the hulking brute at the table as one of the cronies of Anderson the fireman.
The recognition was mutual. With a roar like that of a stricken bull the man leaped to his feet.
“Mates!” he bellowed, “it’s the kid himself! After him! Keep the door there, someone!”
A bottle came whizzing through the air at Jack’s head. He dodged it and it burst in a crimson spatter of ketchup against the wall, spattering the boy with its contents.
Like an arrow he darted out of the door. The proprietor, who was just coming into the place from an errand next door, spread his arms to stop him. Down went Jack’s head, and like a battering ram he butted the fat landlord, gasping, out of his path.
After him came a shower of plates, glasses and bottles and loud, excited shouts.
Jack ran as he had never run in his life before. Behind him came the heavy beat of the firemen’s feet. How much mercy he could expect from them if they laid hands on him, he knew.
Nobody was in sight. Jack’s safety lay in his own heels, a fact he recognized with a quick gasp of dismay.