by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER V A CATASTROPHE AVERTED
As Florence crouched in the dark corner of the deserted museum, many andwild were the thoughts that sped through her mind. Could she do it? Ifworse came to worst, could she strike the blow? She had the power; themuscles of her arm, thanks to her splendid training, were as firm asthose of a man. Yes, she had the power, but could she do it? There couldbe no mincing matters. "Strike first and ask questions after," that mustbe her motto in such an extremity. There would be ample opportunity. Abeast always hunts with nose close to the ground. The man would be a fairmark. The skate was as perfect a weapon as one might ask. Keen andpowerful as a sword, it would do its work well. Yet, after all, did shehave the nerve?
While this problem was revolving in her mind, the pit-pat of footstepsgrew more and more distinct. Her heart pounded fearfully. "He'scoming--coming--coming!" it seemed to be repeating over and over.
Then, suddenly, there flashed through her mind the consequences of theblow she must strike. The man must be given no chance to fight; one blowmust render him unconscious. Whatever was done must be done well. Butafter that, what? She could not leave him alone in this great, desertedshell of a building. Neither could she await alone his return toconsciousness. No, that would never do. She would be obliged to seek aid.From whom? The police, to be sure. But then there would be a court sceneand a story--just such a story as cub reporters dote on. She saw it allin print: "Three girls living in a boat. One pursued by villain. AnAmazon, this modern girl, she brains him with her skate."
Yes, that would make a wonderful news story. And after that would comesuch publicity as would put an end to their happy times aboard the O Moo.That would mean the end of their schooldays, just when they were becomingengrossed in their studies; when they had just begun to realize the vasttreasures of knowledge which was locked up in books and the brains ofwise men and which would be unlocked to them little by little, if onlythey were able to remain at the university.
The whole thing was unthinkable. She must escape. She must not strike theblow. There must be another way out. Yet she could think of none. Beforeher was an iron railing, but to go over this meant a drop of twenty feet.Beyond her at the end of the balcony, towered a brick wall; at her back,an iron door. To her left there sounded ever more plainly the pit-pat oftiptoeing feet.
"I must! I must!" she determined, her teeth set hard. "There is no otherway."
And yet, even as she expected to hear the shift of feet which told of aturn on the balcony, some ten feet from where she cowered, the pit-patwent steadily forward. She could not believe her ears. What had happened?
Then on the heels of this revelation, there followed another: The soundof the footsteps was growing fainter. Of a sudden the truth dawned uponher: The man was not on the balcony. He had not ascended the stairs. Hewas still on the floor below. Her sense of location had been distorted bythe vast silence of the place. She was for the moment safe.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. She sank into a crumpled heap on thefloor. Reviving, she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire tolaugh, but, clenching and unclenching her hands, she maintained anunbroken silence. At length, her nerves in hand once more, she settleddown to watchful waiting. With eyes and ears alert, she caught every newmove of the prowler.
As the sound of his footsteps died away in the distance, she settledherself to calmer thoughts. This place she was in was a vast cathedral ofgloom. When the moon went under a cloud, blotting out the broad circle oflight which fell from the vaulted dome, the darkness was so profound thatshe felt she must scream or flee.
Yet there was something magnetic about the place. She might have beenheld there even though she were not pursued. It was a place to dream of.Some twenty-eight years before a hundred thousand people in a single dayhad passed in and out along the aisles of this vast structure. That hadbeen in the days of its glory. All--the rich, the poor, the cultured, theilliterate, the laborer, the street gamin--had peered at the marvelsdisplayed between its walls. And now--now two beings haunted its vastcorridors, the one pursuing the other. How strange life was!
A whiff of wind sweeping over the main floor sent a whirl of waste paperflying in circles halfway to the ceiling. Two tiny red eyes peered at herat a safe distance--then another and another.
"Rats," she whispered. "Three of them."
The pit-pat of feet became distinct again. Putting out her hand to gripthe skate, she discovered that her fingers were too stiff for service.She had grown cold without sensing it. Rubbing her hands together, shewarmed them. Her limbs too had grown stiff. Rising silently, she wentthrough a series of exercises which sent the blood coursing through herveins.
"Must get out of here some way," she told herself, "but how?"
Then suddenly she thought of the girls. They would be anxious about her,might come out to seek her, only to fall into a trap.
A trap? She thought of Lucile, slim, nervous. Lucile hovering as she hadin the corner of that old Mission on that other night; thought too of thethings Lucile had seen there; admired the nerve she had displayed.
But what did it all mean? She could but feel that it all was connected insome way; the note of warning tacked to the schooner; Lucile's experiencein the Mission and her present one, all fitted together in one.
What was it all about? Were they innocently checkmating, or appearing tocheckmate, some men in their attempt to perform some unlawful deed? Werethese persons moonshiners, gamblers, smugglers, or robbers living in thedry dock? If so, who were they?
Again the sound of footsteps grew indistinct in the distance.
"Ought to be getting out of here," she told herself. "Gettinglate--horribly late and--and cold. The girls will be searching for me.There's an open window over there to my right. Terribly high up, but Imight make the ground though."
She listened intently, but caught no sound. Then stealthily, step bystep, she made her way toward the window.
Now she was fifty feet away from it, now thirty, now ten. And now--nowshe dropped silently to the floor and crept to the opening. There was noglass; she was glad of that. Flattening herself out, she peered over thesill to the void below.
"Terribly far down. Easily thirty feet!" she breathed. "Two gratings;rotten too, perhaps. Ground frozen too."
She reached far down and, gripping the top of the nearest window grating,threw all her strength into an effort to wrench it free.
"That one's strong enough," she concluded; "but how about the other?"
Again she lay quite still, listening. In the distance she fancied shecaught the pit-pat again.
"Better try it while I've got a chance," she decided.
With the care and skill of a trained athlete she swung herself over thewindow sill, clung to the grating with her toes; dropped down; grippedthe grating with her hands; slid her feet to the grating below; testedthat as best she could; trusted her weight to it; swung low; touched theground; then in her stocking-feet sped away toward the nearest street.
Arrived at a clump of bushes which skirted the street, she sat down anddrew on her shoes. Then with a loud "Whew!" she crossed the street andmade her way toward the O Moo over a roundabout but safe route, which ledher by the doors of closed shops and beneath huge apartments where someof Chicago's thousands were sleeping.
Her mind, as she hurried on, was deep in the mystery and full of possibleplans as to the uncertain future.
"I suppose," she mumbled once, "we should give up the O Moo. Most peoplewould say it was a wild notion, this living on a ship, but what's one todo? No rooms you can pay for, and who would give up a universityeducation without a fight? What have we done? What are these peoplebothering us for anyway? What right have they? Who are they anyway?"
This cast her into deeper reflections. The face she had seen was not thatof Mark Pence. Whether it was one of the Orientals living on the scow, orone of the fishermen living in their fishing smack, she could not tell.She had never seen the fisherme
n. Even Marian had seen but two of them.
"Might not be any of these," she concluded with a shrug. "Might have beensome night prowler who will never come back."
* * * * * * * *
The two girls in the cabin of the O Moo had waited an hour. Lucile hadfallen half-asleep. Marian had lifted a trap door and had started thesmall gasoline-driven generator which furnished them light and heat. Theengine was racing away with a faint pop-pop-pop, when Lucile sat upsuddenly.
"Marian," she exclaimed, "what did that boy say about the scow thoseChinese people live in?"
"Why," said Marian, wrinkling her brow, "he said something about goingdown twenty feet."
"That seems strange, doesn't it?" Lucile considered for a moment.
"Yes, but then it was a winding stairway. Probably he isn't used to thatkind. Perhaps he just thought it was farther down than it really was.I--"
"What was that?" exclaimed Lucile, starting up. There had come a muffledsound from below, barely heard above the pop-pop of the engine.
In a second Marian had stopped the generator. Each girl strained her earsto listen. It came again, this time more distinct; tap-tap-tap, a pause,then a fourth tap.
"Florence!" exclaimed Lucile springing for the door.
Three taps, a halt, then a tap was the signal for lowering therope-ladder.
A moment later Florence was being dragged into the cabin and ordered togive an account of herself.
"Sit down," she said. "It's rather a long story. When I'm through you'llvery likely be for leaving the O Moo in the morning, and I'm not so surebut that is the right thing to do. The cruise of the O Moo," she laugheda bit uncertainly, "gives some indication of turning out to be anill-fated voyage."
With Lucile and Marian listening intently Florence told her story.
"Florence," said Lucile, when she had finished, "do--do you suppose thathas anything to do with the old Mission affair I told you about?"
"Or the warning tacked on our hull?" suggested Marian.
"I don't know," said Florence thoughtfully, "It might. The point reallyis, though, are we leaving in the morning?"
She was answered by an emphatic:
"No! No!"
"Do you know," said Lucile a few moments later as she sipped a cup of hotchocolate and nibbled at a wafer, "I peeped into that room in the oldMission yesterday. The shutter had been replaced but I could see throughthe cracks. There really wasn't anything on the table. The candles andcrucifix were there, but nothing on the old table--not anything at all.I--I must just have imagined that face."
"I'm not so sure," said Florence mysteriously.
"Oh!" exclaimed Lucile suddenly, "You were going to tell me the storythat face reminded you of--the story told by an old seaman."
"I will," said Florence, "but not to-night. Just look," she sprang to herfeet, "it's after three o'clock and to-day is already to-morrow."
