Down an alley they raced. The two younger men had been behind at first. They were swifter of foot, were catching up with the two he had seen on the car.
Then of a sudden he caught his breath.
The foremost young man had half turned his head. In that instant Johnny recognized his host of the night before, Drew Lane.
“The dirty dog!” he muttered, slowing up. “No wonder he carries a gun! Ho well, let ’em have it. You can’t get yourself shot to save a few dollars, especially when you haven’t a chance to win.”
But what was this? Another wild turn of events. Having caught up with one of the men Johnny had seen on the car, Drew Lane dealt him a blow on the chin that sent him spinning round and round, and dropped him with a crash to the ground.
“What you running about?” Drew Lane fairly shouted. “Get yourself killed.”
Leaving him lying there, he went racing on after the other fugitive.
Still Johnny did not understand what it was all about. Only one thing was clear. One of two people had his purse. In that purse was his remaining one hundred dollars, and some odd bits of change. There was an even chance that the man lying on the stones of the alley pavement was the one. He might at any moment recover the use of his legs and vanish with the purse. Johnny needed the money.
Having reasoned this out, he sprinted up to the spot beside the man and stood there, feet well placed, hands in position, attentive, expectant. What he expected came to pass. Rolling over twice, the man put a trembling hand to his jaw and stole a furtive glance at Johnny; then he crept to a position on his hands and knees closely resembling that of a racer who prepares for a hundred yard dash.
“I wouldn’t move, if I were you,” said Johnny, coming a step closer. “You are all out of breath. Besides, you are in no condition to run. Don’t exercise enough, you don’t. Your clothes are all right, quite the thing, I suppose. But it’s what’s inside the clothes that really counts. How’d you look stripped? Huh!”