A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

the slot machine had stolen from him, and his hesitation came from the
fact that he was trying to select the shiniest ones!
Having gotten what he came for, he once more shouldered his crowbar,
and let himself out into the dark passage. Here he stopped in terror!
Something was snorting and hissing without, something that sounded as if
it might be the Devil!
In Chick's creed there was but one affirmation. He believed absolutely
in the Devil. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was red,
and cloven-footed and that his tail ended in a hard, sharp, spike, like
Mammy Flathers' ice-pick. He also knew that when he breathed, it was in
groans and hisses, such as he was hearing at the present moment. Chick's
hair would have risen on his head, it wanted to, but it was not long
enough.
For a moment he stood breathless, then he drew a sigh of relief. It
wasn't anything but an automobile after all! He tiptoed to a window
and peered out. The lamps from the machine threw long lights across the
shining wet street, but nothing else was visible.
After a long while he heard voices at the side door. Somebody was coming
into the saloon! He could hear the doorknob turning, and a key in the
latch. He started back to the barroom, then remembering a little closet
under the steps where he and Skeeter used to play, he felt along the
wall. There it was! And just in time for him to stumble in and pull the
door to, leaving enough crack to breathe through, in case his breath
ever came back.
The side door was flung open, and the sputter of a match was followed by
the feeble light from a gas-jet at the end of the passage.
“Here, I'll take the umbrella!” said a voice he dreaded next to the
Devil's. It was Sheeley; he would go into the barroom, and discover the
wreckage of the slot-machine! Chick was beginning to feel the handcuffs
on his wrists, when he became aware of ascending footsteps overhead.
What were they going up-stairs for? Was it a sparring match? Forgetting
his precarious position he leaned forward to listen, upsetting a box on
the shelf beside him.
“Who's that?” came in Sheeley's fiercest tones from the stairway above,
and Chick cowered back into the dark with chattering teeth. Then he
heard him say something about the window, and followed the sound of his
heavy footsteps down the stairs and up again.
Now was his chance to escape while they were up-stairs. With utmost
caution he pushed open the closet door, and on hands and knees began his
perilous journey to the window. It was at that moment that he decided
positively that he would not be a burglar. A plumber took fewer risks,
and made more money. Once at the window he was unable to budge the
lock. Standing on the sill, whimpering with fear, he wrestled with it
frantically, bruising his fingers, and tearing his nails, but he could
not move it. Then he tried the door but Sheeley had evidently locked it