The big man had taken up one of the plaster molds and was trimming it off with a knife. He worked as composedly as anybody might who was following a perfectly legitimate trade.
“Whew!” burst from Chick’s lips.
It was only an expression of pain and discomfort, and it was not loud; this was fortunate, for the big man started as if he believed he heard something, but was not quite sure.
He stared about the room for a moment, during which period Chick huddled back into the heat of the recess behind the stove and prepared himself for a fight, but seemed satisfied that he had not heard anything except in his fancy.
“All kinds of funny noises can be heard in the night in an old house like this,” he remarked aloud, as he resumed his work. “I’ll be glad when this night’s work is over, all the same. I’m pretty nearly all in.”
“So am I,” thought Chick. “I don’t believe I can stand this another half minute. I’m almost touching the hot stove, and the heat is something fierce. I hope the chief will understand that I’ve had a tough time of it. A fellow likes to get credit for an experience like this.”
His clothing began to scorch, the flesh of his face and hands felt seared, in spite of all his efforts to protect them, and in addition to this torture, was the sickening effect of the poisonous fumes which were given off at every crevice of the stove.
“I’m about all in,” murmured Chick, as he tried to find a position a little farther away from the stove, without betraying himself. “I can begin to understand how people have felt who were burned at the stake. Hello! Here comes that big lummox to put on more heat.”
Indeed, the big man was approaching, but it was apparent that he had no suspicion of anybody else being in the room. He whistled softly as he came forward.
After tending the fire—for which Chick inwardly cursed him—he stirred the pot of metal with a steel rod. By this time Chick was compelled to crouch closer to the awful stove, to keep out of view of the big man.