“Too bad,” was his despairing cry. “I can’t get out, after all. The men must be almost there now. If——”
He thrust his hand into his pocket, and uttered a low cry. They had not robbed him of his jackknife, and he soon had it out, digging away the dirt for life.
How the boy worked! In half an hour he had dug a large cavity under one side of the stone, and a hard push sent it over so that he managed to squeeze through on the other side, and crawl from the cave.
Then off he started across fields for the house of Gilbert, the town marshal. He had to cross a brook, but he did not lose time. He waded through, and, with the water dripping from his garments, reached the marshal’s house ten minutes later.
As soon as possible that individual was aroused, and Paul told his story.
“Hurry,” he concluded. “You may be too late.”
In less than five minutes they were hurrying toward the treasurer’s home. The marshal had two revolvers, one of which he handed to Paul.
“Don’t be afraid to use it,” he said, and a few minutes after they came in sight of Mr. Bolton’s house.
They looked cautiously around as they approached, but all was silent. Evidently the thieves had not arrived yet.
When they reached the house, the marshal rang the bell long and hard. A moment later an upper window was raised, and Mr. Bolton called out: