"Oh, father," pleaded Tom, "do let me speak to you just one minute."
Tom's claims to be heard were usually urgent, so his father only said, "Have a little patience, my boy; in ten minutes I'll hear all you have to say."
Ten minutes! What might not happen in ten minutes! If he waited up there, the criminals might, finding themselves shut in, guess that they were under suspicion, and make good their escape. If he went to call help, his father might, in his absence, run into the very danger he was seeking to save him from.
A bright thought came to him. So long as his father remained in his room he must be safe. Tom turned the key in the door, and locked him in. Then, with all the speed which terror could lend to a boy's nimble feet, he ran to the police station, a few blocks distant, reaching it in a condition which only left him able to convey a general idea that something dreadful was going on at Mr. Primrose's. Two policemen were there. First sending a message to head-quarters for further force, they followed Tom in all haste, a small crowd of by-standers falling into line, and gathering strength as they neared the Primrose domicile. As they came to the gate Tom saw the Accomplice trying to open the window.
"See! they're getting away!" he cried. And the policemen bounded into the house and seized the two men. At this moment a heavy pounding was heard overhead. Tom turned paler than before.
"There must be more of them up stairs," he shrieked; "they are getting after my father."
He tore up the stairs, and found the room still locked; but the pounding kept on. He turned the key with a trembling hand.
"Who locked me in?" exclaimed his father. "Such foolery—" He stopped in surprise as half a dozen men tramped hastily up stairs.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Primrose? Are the rascals in there?"
"Hurt? No. What's the matter? what is all this fuss about?" He stared in amazement at the crowd pressing into the hall. "Is the house on fire?"