In his terrified bosom P. Sybarite felt the heart of him turn to cold
and clammy stone.
No clamour more infernal could well have been improvised, given
similar circumstances and facilities as rude. It seemed hours, rather
than instants, that the damned thing wallowed and bellowed beneath
him, raising a din to disturb all Christendom. While, the moment it
was still, the cries of the police pack belled clear and near at hand:
"This way, b'ys!"
"There he is, the--"
"Got 'im now--"
"Halt or--!"
Another pistol shot!...
Glancing over shoulder, the hunted man caught a glimpse of uncouth
shapes wriggling along a fence ridge several rods away. No more than
the barest glimpse, it served: with a mighty heave and wriggle he
breasted the lower platform, shifted a hand to the top of its railing,
heaved himself up to a foothold, and swarmed up the iron ladder with
an agility an ape might have envied.
But as he mounted, it grew momentarily more evident that the stage
thunder manufactured by that wretched galvanised iron cylinder had, in
fact, served him far from ill; reverberating from wall to wall within
the hollow of the block, its dozen echoes diverted pursuit to as many
quarters, luring the limbs of the law every way but the right one.
Nobody, it appeared, was alert enough to espy that fugacious shadow on
the fire-ladder. And in less than a brace of minutes P.
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