To a chorus of yells
November's driver shut down the brakes not a thought too soon--not
soon enough, indeed, to avoid a collision that crumpled a mudguard as
though it had been a thing of pasteboard.
Simultaneously P. Sybarite's chauffeur set the brakes, and with the
agility of a hounded rabbit seeking its burrow, dived from his seat to
the side of the car farthest from the gangsters.
In an instant he was underneath it.
P. Sybarite, on the other hand, had leaped before the accident.
Staggering a pace or two--and all the time under fire--he at length
found his feet not six feet from the limousine. It had stopped
broadside on. In this position he commanded the front seats without
great danger of sending a shot through the body.
His weapon rose mechanically and quite deliberately he took
aim--making assurance doubly sure throughout what seemed an age made
sibilant by the singing past his head of the infuriated gangster's
bullets.
But his finger never tightened upon the trigger.
November had ceased firing and was plucking nervously at the slide of
his automatic. His driver had jumped down from his seat and was
scuttling madly up the street.
In a breath P. Sybarite realised what was the matter: as automatics
will, when hot with fast firing, November's had choked on an empty
shell.
With a sob of excitement the little man lowered his weapon and flung
himself upon the gang leader.
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