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Page 44
In a thought P. Sybarite turned the galvanised iron cylinder
bottom-up, clambered upon it, and on tiptoe sought to gauge the exact
distance of the requisite leap. But now the grating seemed to have
receded at least three feet from its position as first judged--to be
hopelessly removed from the grasp of his yearning fingers.
Yet that mad attempt must be made. Why die fighting when a broken neck
would serve as well?
Gathering his slight person together, P. Sybarite crouched, quivered,
jumped for glory and the Saints--and all but brained himself on that
impish and trickish grating. Clutching it and kicking footloose, he
was stunned by the wonder of many brilliant new-born constellations
swirling round his poor head to the thunderous music of the spheres,
as rendered by the ash-can which, displaced by the vigour of his
acrobatics, had toppled over and was rolling and clattering hideously
on the flagging.
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. Sybarite, at
the top, was pulling himself gingerly over the lip of a stone coping.
Surmising that he had gained not the roof of the house but that of a
two-story rear extension, he found himself in what seemed a small
roof-garden, made private by awnings and Venetian blinds. Between his
soles and the stone flooring he could feel the yielding texture of a
grass mat, and he could not only dimly discern but also smell the
perfume of green things in pots here and there. And his first step
forward brought him into soft collision with a wicker basket-chair.
He paused and took thought in perturbation.
A most disappointing and deceptive sort of a house--inhabited, after
all: its sombre and quiet aspect masking Heaven alone knew what
pitfalls!...
Not a glint of light, not a sound....
When he moved again, it was with scrupulous caution.
Stealing softly on, the darkness seemed to thicken round him. He was
sensible of suspense and qualms, of creeping flesh and an almost
irresistible inclination to hold his breath. Uncanny business,
this--penetrating unknown fastnesses of a dark and silent house at
dead of night: a trespasser unable to surmise when the righteous
householder, lurking on familiar ground and vigilant under arms, might
not open fire....
Nevertheless, the police behind him were a menace of known calibre.
With whatever shrinkings and dire misgivings, P. Sybarite went on.
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