"What coin?"
"Well, maybe a slice of old Coolidge's boodle. There's enough of it for all hands to have a dip. How does that hit you?"
"Sounds interesting at least," admitted West, so earnestly as to attract the other's attention. "But let's talk it over among ourselves—who is listening there?"
Hobart glanced behind at the nearly closed door. It was for only a second he was off guard, yet that was enough. With one leap forward, West struck, his clinched fist smashing against the side of the fellow's jaw. It was a wicked, vicious blow, with all the propelling force of the body behind it, and Hobart went down stunned, crashing the door tightly shut as he fell. Once he strove blindly to reach his feet, tugging madly at the weapon in his pocket, but West, feeling no mercy, and wide awake to the fact that any shooting would mean a call for help, struck again, sending his groggy opponent flat, and unconscious. It was all the swift work of a minute, and there had been no noise to arouse alarm. Hobart had not even cried out; the only audible sounds being the sharp click of the door, and the dull thud of a falling body.
West emptied the man's pockets, slipping two revolvers into his own; then stood for an instant motionless, staring down into the white upturned face. He had followed the impulse of the moment; had struck savagely; knowing it was his only chance. Thus far he had done well; but what next? He was conscious of but one thought, one purpose—to escape from this house, unpledged and still free to act. Yet how could this be accomplished? He had no plan, no knowledge even of his surroundings, of what lay beyond the walls of this room. His eyes swept the bare interior, seeing nothing to inspire hope. Hobart had said this room was practically a prison, and it looked it—the walls bare, and unbroken, and a rough single cot. All possibility of egress lay in the closed door, and a narrow window high up in the opposite wall, also tightly shut, and shaded by a heavy curtain.
His hand tried the door cautiously; the knob turned easily enough, but there was no yielding to his pressure. The lock was evidently on the outside, and he could discover no key-hole, no possibility of operating it from within. Then, besides in all probability, a guard would be posted outside in the hall, waiting for some signal from Hobart. West glanced again at the recumbent figure, bending over to make sure of his condition, then, gripping a chair, silently crossed the room.
There was not a minute to lose. He knew that he must choose quickly whatever course he pursued. Any instant Hobart might recover consciousness, and gain assistance by a rap on the door; indeed his confederates without might not wait for the signal. The silence within, the length of time, might arouse suspicion. The only chance lay in immediate action. Standing on the chair West found the window had been securely nailed into place, but this had been done so long ago, it was quite possible for him to work the nails loose, yet it required all his strength to press up the warped sash sufficiently far to enable him to gain a view outside. It was not encouraging. Evidently he was upon the third floor, at the rear of the building, looking down into a cluttered up back yard. His eyes could scarcely distinguish what was below, as the only glimmer of light came from a far distant street lamp at the end of an alley, the faint rays creeping in through holes in the fence. Yet one black shadow seemed to promise the sloping roof of a shed directly below; but even with that to break his fall, it was a desperate leap.
He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden below. For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark. The awakening came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled backward. He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering. Half blinded, West leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, but was too late. Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the door panel. It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by another man, pushed forward into the room. West was trapped, helpless; one man pitted against three. He backed slowly away, brushing tack the dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal instinct on the alert.
Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair, the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the further wall. The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training gave quick insight as to the part he was to play. He spoke gruffly out into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like a bull about to charge. West understood; he was locked in to fight it out—three against one. Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips. The fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.
"Now we'll take care of you, Captain," he taunted. "Never mind his guns, Mike; there's not a load in either of them. Give the guy what he is looking for. Come on you terriers!"