SUSPENSE
No, it wasn’t, he had looked in the wrong place. He was so excited . . . There it was still, a wee little red speck.
Hurry! Like lightning he groped his way to the gate lever, felt for the place where the cord binding ended, and fixed his teeth there. His scout knife had been arrested along with poor, faithful Liz, but he had his teeth. And he knew how to use them—oh, trust him for that.
In a few seconds he had loosened a strand and chewed it in half. He stood on tiptoe and pulled the end up, thus unwinding the cord mechanically and saving a few precious seconds. It came away and hung like a spiral spring. He pulled it through one hand straightening it to its full length.
Then he groped for the old magazine, here, there . . . Where in all . . . It was lying just before . . . Oh, where in . . .
He had it. Like lightning he poured kerosene on it from the old can, then tied an end of cord around it. The old periodical was dry enough for ready ignition, surely; its yellowed pages were fairly brittle.
All right. He hurried to the window. Now he could hear a far-distant rattling—never mind. Where was the red spot? Gone! No—there it was, hardly more than a spark . . . In ten more seconds . . . Suppose the cord wasn’t long enough . . .
There was no time for any bull’s-eye practice here. In ten seconds, fifteen at most, the tiny coal . . . No—yes—of course the cord was long enough! “I’m—I’m—I’m always—lucky,” breathed Pee-wee. “I—I am—” He heard the whistle of a locomotive now—in the east. Pretty far away yet . . . But hurry!
If the stone throwers of Barrel Alley had been there that night they would have seen something which ought to have raised the blush of shame upon their dirty faces. They would have seen little Pee-wee Harris of Terrace Avenue, Bridgeboro (where the rich sissies lived), throw a magazine. They would have seen its drift and action so nicely calculated that it alighted plunk upon a little burning ember obscuring it from view. One shot, that was enough. The little master marksman leaned far out of the window, dangling his cord, waiting.
Waiting . . .