gan hustling into his clothes. When he got downstairs he found the detective and another man on the porch, waiting.
"Jenkins, this is Mr. Ruthven," said the detective. "We can depend on him."
Jenkins nodded. Without speaking, he left the porch and started up the walk. The detective, with a jerk of the head, indicated that Ruthven was to follow. The deputy sheriff walked briskly, and led the way into a sparsely built-up street where the houses faced the railroad tracks. He stopped before a two-story frame structure which was badly in need of paint.
"We'll go in at the rear," said he in a low tone to the detective. "I've arranged for that door to be left open. We'd better leave Ruthven outside to watch—the two of us will be needed inside."
"Correct," answered Hackett. "Get that, Ruthven?"
"Yes," answered the one-time half back; "but I'd like to be where there's something going on. I don't want to pose as a figurehead."
"You're not prepared, and things might go hard with you at close quarters. Keep your eyes skinned, so that if one of the men tries to slip away you can stop him."
Jenkins had quietly opened a kitchen door, and the detective trailed after him. The door closed, and for a few moments there was silence within the house. Then, all at once, a wild commotion started. A struggle was going on, furniture crashed, the whole house seemed to shiver and shake, husky voices cried out angrily, and above all arose the wild, terrified scream of a woman.
Ruthven's ears were keen, and while the disorder was at its height there came to him a sharp scraping against clapboards around the corner of the house. Darting in that direction, he observed a man in shirt and trousers, barefooted and bareheaded, racing toward the railroad tracks. It was Weasel Morrison, and he was carrying a satchel as he ran. He had dropped from an upper window, and apparently had eluded successfully the two officers in the building.
"Stop!" shouted Ruthven, immediately taking up the pursuit.
Morrison cast a quick glance over his shoulder, and his sinister face darkened. He must have recognized Ruthven, and realized that he owed him an old score. He did not stop, of course; on the contrary, he gathered himself in for a fresh burst of speed. He was aiming for the end of the little freight depot, and was dashing along the side of a big stock pen.
Ruthven, in spite of his size, was a crack sprinter. Many a time he had come down the field like a limited express train, with the pigskin under his arm, crashing through the interference and showing clean heels to all who came behind. His legs had not lost much of their speed, and now he was gaining upon Morrison at every jump. He was not more than ten yards in the rear when the fleeing crook vanished around the corner of the freight depot.
"I've got him!" thought Ruthven exultantly.
But he had to revise this opinion. When he, in his turn, whirled around the corner of the freight building, Morrison was just piling upon a velocipede car which stood on the rails. Opposite the car stood a pole that held a target. A railroad employee was at the top of the pole making repairs. The little car belonged to him, and he was yelling dire things at Morrison.
The crook paid no attention. Throwing off the supplies that lay on a small platform back of the "speeder's" seat, he placed his satchel where it would be safe and bent to the foot pedals and handlebars.
