The hoodlum made no move to return the money, but continued to struggle wildly. With a firm hold on each ankle, Carl laid back and pulled for all he was worth; but the thief had caught hold of something inside and all Carl's pulling didn't get him an inch toward the alley.
While the whole matter was at a deadlock, the thief half in half out of the shed, and Carl tugging fruitlessly, the young sailor appeared at the end of the alley. Taking quick note of the situation at the shed, he gave a yell and bore down in that direction.
"Well, strike me lucky, old ship," cried the young tar, "this is my busy day and no mistake. Is that the duffing son of a flounder that got away with my wad?"
"He iss der feller, Verral," panted Carl. "He don'd vant to come out oof der vood shet."
"Hang onto his pins, matey," was the answer, "and I'll fix him."
The sailor pushed his hands through the hole, grabbed the hoodlum by the throat, and exerted a steady pressure.
This manœuvre was successful. Half strangled, the thief's clutching fingers relaxed their hold, and the sailor and Carl, between them, managed to drag him back into the alley.
"Now, you pirate," cried the sailor, dropping down on the captive, "where's that money? That was a raw play you made and you might have pulled it off if it hadn't been for my mate, here. D'you want to go below, in irons? Where's the roll?"
"Look in his bocket vonce," suggested Carl.
"I'll kill you fer dis!" fumed the hoodlum.