But the highwayman was a desperate fellow, and seemed to be fighting for his life.
With the full weight of the three men upon him, he still struggled to his feet, shaking the men from his back as a huge dog throws off water.
Then he made for the door. His companions had disappeared, and the patrolman on the beat had been attracted to the spot by the noise of the combat.
The robber sprang past the officer and went, panting, up a dark alley.
Pursuit soon died out, and the fellow stopped to rest in the shelter of a cluster of stables.
His clothes, though of good material, were of the cheapest, and in shocking condition.
His broken shoes were soaked with mud and water, and his crownless hat afforded little protection from the weather.
When, occasionally, the light of a street lamp shone upon him, it revealed a countenance haggard and worn, yet it was the face of Morton Parks.
In all the city of Chicago that night there was probably no more piteous object than the escaped criminal. For lack of money this leader of criminals had become a common highwayman.
Dodging here and there through the semi-deserted streets in the banking and real-estate district—for it was now after ten o’clock—the fugitive at length entered a prosperous-looking oyster and chophouse and asked for the proprietor.