“Stop—stop!” he yelled, an instant later.
George had been thinking quickly, and was already on his feet. Springing forward, he overturned his chair, reached the front door, and flung it wide open. Aleck was scarcely a yard behind him.
“Stop—stop!” commanded Dexter, again.
But his words fell upon deaf ears. The two boys pounded along the pavement, which was almost deserted, and were soon around a corner.
Bill Junior was on their trail. Bill was long of limb and fleet of foot. The pursuing Dexter was soon left far behind; but Bill Junior kept close at their heels, unshakable as their own shadows.
“Stop, you fellows, stop!” he panted. “Stop—I want to speak with ye.”
Looking over his shoulder, George saw how near their pursuer was. He gritted his teeth; his breath was almost spent; one more desperate effort, and he was obliged to halt.
Panting, George Clayton backed up against a high fence. It was a deserted locality. Close by, a lone gas lamp cast a pale, flickering glare on a row of posters; across the way was a line of tenements, deep in shadow; beyond, were fields. It seemed on the edge of nowhere—a dismal, forbidding place.
Aleck stopped close by. For several moments, none of the three boys spoke. A variety of feelings coursed through George Clayton’s breast. He looked at Bill Junior’s strong, loosely-put-together frame, his big, bony hands; and gazed at the grinning face with its tousled hair, and then—
Bill Junior extended his hand.