He crouched, half-stifled, in the hamper, listening for ages—it seemed. At last—the bolt of the sitting room door clicked.
From within his hiding place Bill could hear almost clearly what was happening in the room. There came the faint creak of a boot on the floor boards.
“Keep to the rug, you fool!” hissed Johnson’s voice. “Do you want to wake him!”
For several minutes there was no other sound. In his mind’s eye he pictured the young gangster tiptoeing to the bed and looking down on the rose-colored pajamas—
Suddenly they were beside him. The hamper was dragged away from the wall, lifted and let down on the tiles again.
“Holy smoke! what a weight!” a voice whispered hoarsely.
“Shut up and come on!”
Again the hamper was lifted and carried from the room. Outside in the corridor it was set down for a moment while its bearers locked the door. Then the angle at which Bill was being carried shifted, the basket rocked slowly up and down, as he descended the stairs. There were a great many stairs—they seemed endless. Twice he was set down roughly, while the men paused for breath.
He had a desperate impulse to thrust open the lid, tear away the suffocating clothes and strike out for freedom. But the time was not yet. He must be patient.
The air became cooler and he was able to breathe more freely. He thought they must be in the open now. The hamper was banged down again.