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Updated: May 6, 2025
Once more they fell back and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an infuriated beast: "He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de bulls down here in a minute an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be too damned soft wid him dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it an' beat it quick.
The darkness hid all six, the two policemen, the four men behind them the only sounds were the OFFICERS' footsteps dying away in the distance. Jimmie Dale's fingers were mechanically testing the mechanism of the automatic in his pocket. "The Skeeter's gang!" he muttered to himself. "Red Mose, the Midget, Harve Thoms and the Skeeter!
His limp was forgotten, and for half the distance he ran neck and neck with Skeeter. Then he dropped to Skeeter's middle, to his flank then ran with his black nose even with Skeeter's rump. Even so it was a closer race than the crowd had expected, and all the cowboys began to yell themselves purple.
They grappled together in the dust of the road, long before they reached the prize, and with arms and legs entwined rolled toward it. Chick was underneath when they arrived, but he loosened his clutch of Skeeter's throat, and darted forth a small, grimy hand that closed upon the treasure.
The big one wasn't in it! He kep' tryin' to stop 'em, buttin' in with his whip." "But how do you know all this, Chick?" cried Miss Lady almost fiercely; "did the Sheeley boy tell you?" "Skeeter? Shucks, he don't know nothin' 'ceptin' what his paw tole him." "But who told you?" Chick closed his lips and shook his head: "He'll set the cop on me." "Who?" "Skeeter's paw. Fer smashin' the slot machine.
A dull-toned roar, as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses, cries, shouts, and yells and high over all the shrill call of the police-patrol whistle and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's revolver shots the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed allies of the law!
Don't move!" There was a rush against the door and then a voice growled: "Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do scare him away by bustin' it! Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up." It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang the worst apaches in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors, he had called them and the lowest bidders!
The news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling like lightning all through the underworld there will be a mob here on the Skeeter's heels. So, Jimmie quick! Run!" Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale and run! In another five minutes, perhaps yes. But there probably would not be five minutes and she if she were found here! "Yes," he said quietly. "I'll get away in a moment. You go at once.
The girth's broken; I'll have to make another hole in the strap." The word "boy" being a generic term was promptly appropriated by each of the youngsters as applying to himself, and a fierce scramble ensued in which the larger was victorious. "Skeeter's it," announced the flagman, a self-constituted umpire. "Git out 'er the way there, Chick, and give the gent a chanct to see what he's a-doin'."
But when they were yet a few leaps from the wire clothes-line stretched high, from post to post, Bud leaned forward until he lay flat alongside Smoky's neck, and gave a real Indian war-whoop. Smoky lifted and lengthened his stride, came up again to Skeeter's middle, to his shoulder, to his ears and with the next leap thrust his nose past Skeeter's as they finished.
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