“Seedney, find the clo’es line; in the storeroom—we’ll tie him; then let him get up.”
Sydney lighted the lamp and quickly brought a rope, with which they bound him as he lay, face downward; and when Mrs. Schmitz with difficulty regained her feet she ordered him to rise.
To their surprise he lay motionless and silent except for the cough he tried to suppress. They waited, Sydney wondering if the man were only feigning; Mrs. Schmitz suspecting his exhaustion.
“Go, quick, and telephone for the police. I’m a match for him now.” Sydney lifted his poker threateningly, though afterward he smiled, remembering how thorough was their work of tying.
But the woman’s keen eyes had seen something that arrested her. Though the man made no attempt to obey, she saw him tremble, saw his shoulders lift; heard his indrawn, convulsive breath, and knew what it meant. Much quicker than she had risen she dropped on her knees beside him, a mother’s tenderness in her rich voice.
“Look at me! You are sorry! Almost you could cry. No bad man does that when he iss robbing—when he iss caught. He fights, or mebbe he says damn. You are no bad man.”
She laid her hand tenderly on his head and tried to see his face; but he still held it to the floor, fighting his cough. He wore a thin suit much too large for him, and his shoes were broken, showing his bare feet.
“Get up, man. Whatever robbing you have done you find not much money, I guess.”
Before he could move, a violent spasm of coughing shook him pitifully. She turned, caught up the spread Sydney had dropped, and threw it over him. “Watch him till I come back,” she called, and ran out through the dining room, surprisingly fast for a heavy woman. “Tie him in a chair, and make a fire, Seedney,” she added in a high voice from the hall; and in a moment they heard the stairs creaking under her.
“Get into this chair,” Sydney ordered, pushing the kitchen “rocker” toward the other.