"No, you don't—Mr. Arthur Miller!" roared the submarine boy, making a bound after him.
So much force did Jack put into that leap that, missing, he fell to the floor on his hands and knees. The moment thus gained for the fugitive was enough to give the latter time to dart out, slamming the door shut after him.
"This chase doesn't stop until it turns out my way!" muttered young Benson, doggedly. He had expected to find the door secured, but it was not. He yanked it open.
The fugitive was crossing the yard, just reaching the alley, when the same woman who had first spoken to Jack again opened her door. In one hand she held a mop. This she threw with such aim or luck that it passed between the running man's legs, tripping him.
And then Jack Benson piled upon him in earnest, first snatching up the mop and brandishing it over the fugitive's head.
"I don't want to hurt your cranium any," flared up Captain Jack. "But
I'm going to do it if I have to."
"Confound you, woman!" roared the discomfited rascal.
"Arthur Miller's voice!" cried Jack, joyously. "Now, I know what we had only guessed so far! Now, see here, my fine fellow, you might as well give in, for I'm not going to quit until I land you—"
Miller had been lying quietly enough for a few moments. Now, however, he suddenly squirmed about, catching Jack by the ankles with both hands. Down went the submarine boy, flopped by a trick that he had little expected.
"We'll see whether you've got me!" clicked the scoundrel, leaping to his feet and making for the street.