“After a booze, he’s as strong as a railway engine,” returned Jim, “and he goes plumb daffy. Murder or anything else doesn’t matter a hill of beans to him at a time like this.”
“That sounds exceedingly pleasant.”
“Pshaw!––you needn’t mind. You’ll know in lots of time, for he’s happy and gentle as a lark when he’s really boozing. It is only when he wakes up the morning after––after a ten hours’ sleep––that the fun begins.
“He killed a horse once with his bare hands. Got on its back and strangled it somehow. He half-killed the old Police Chief. He got a year in jail for that. They were going to send him to an asylum afterwards, but he was such a fine workman and so decent at an ordinary time, that Royce Pederstone and the Mayor gave their guarantees and promised to attend to him any time he tried his monkey-doodle business again.”
Meantime, Hanson walked over to the front door and tested it. Then he came toward the back one.
“Run!” shouted Langford, suiting prompt action to his word.
Phil remained a moment or two longer, trusting to his nimbleness of foot for emergency.
He saw Hanson stoop and pick up a great, heavy, 80 sledge, then spring madly to the back door, swinging the big hammer above his head. With a shivering crash the woodwork splintered.
Phil turned to run.
Another great crash and the whole door and its fastenings tumbled outward, and that giant piece of infuriated humanity stood looking about him, framed in the broken woodwork.