a sort of rhythmic convulsion on the track, as if he were trying by main strength to break his bonds.
But that wasn’t what he was attempting. One sharp effort had told him that was impossible. He was trying to get his hands to a certain spot between the lowest and next-lowest of his vest buttons.
Dick’s hands and arms were bound to his sides by coils of rope around his body, so that it was a tremendous task for him to work his hands over. But he made it, with the whining of the rails under him increasing by the second.
His left forefinger found a small loop and pulled hard.
The edge of this vest was just a little stiffer than the fabric would warrant, as were the edges of most of his other vests. This was because through the edging, concealed in the material, ran a length of very thin wire.
The wire, under a low-powered microscope, would prove to have numberless little teeth in it, making it into a tiny hack saw. You could saw through steel bars with it, given time.
Benson held the wire taut by pulling at the little loop into which the lower end was twisted. Then he expanded and contracted his chest muscles rapidly.
In a few seconds the slim, barbed wire had frazzled through the fabric of the vest; and in not many more it had parted the coils of rope. But the train was very near now! Light from its single glaring eye was beginning to touch Benson.
He snapped to a sitting position and his hand flashed to his left leg.
Ike was there. The throwing knife, needle-pointed and razor-edged, was in its holster. Benson had the twin holsters below his knees because a search seldom gets down that far.
The engine behind the glaring light began shrieking like a frightened monster as the brakes ground on. The engineer had seen the body on the tracks and was trying to stop the countless tons behind his locomotive before reaching the spot. A hopeless job.
Dick’s hand swept over the cords at his ankles and they parted. He had just time. The train ground by, with sparks streaming from the iron shoes of the brakes, hardly a second after he had flung himself off the rails.
But a danger past was a danger forgotten. Dick raced by the spot where the battle had taken place and recovered Mike. The little gun was laying on the cinders, in front of the boxcar, where it had fallen from his hand. Then he sped for the fence with no sign in his pale eyes that he realized how close death had been; sped for the fence before the six men, who had trapped him, should learn that their trap had failed.
He just made that, too. Startled yells, shots in the night drowned by the train’s roar, whispering slugs near his head, told him that the gang had discovered the impossible escape and were trying now to set it right with bullets.
Like a huge black cat, The Avenger swung over the fence and was safe. They’d taken those forceps from him; a pat at his pocket proved that. But they hadn’t taken his life, and they’d live to regret that failure.
CHAPTER VIII
Money or the Chair
“I’m certainly glad to see you.”
Markham Farquar’s face showed that he meant the words with all sincerity. The lawyer had leaped from his chair when The Avenger entered his office and had caught Dick Benson’s hand in both of his.
“I haven’t been able to find out a thing about the frame they’re holding over me, Mr. Benson. Not a thing. Have you turned anything up?”
The lawyer ran a hand distractedly through his thick gray hair, and there was something like frenzy in his gray eyes. But Benson didn’t answer that latter question for a moment.
“You say you haven’t been able to find out anything,” he repeated. “You’ve been trying?”
“Yes,” said Farquar. “I’ve been all over the lot, trying to find out where Beall and Cleeves and Salloway keep those fake clues of theirs. Also, I’ve been trying to trace any previous connections of my clerk, Smathers, to see if I can find a hint of what happened to him.” He sighed. “I’ve drawn a
But that wasn’t what he was attempting. One sharp effort had told him that was impossible. He was trying to get his hands to a certain spot between the lowest and next-lowest of his vest buttons.
Dick’s hands and arms were bound to his sides by coils of rope around his body, so that it was a tremendous task for him to work his hands over. But he made it, with the whining of the rails under him increasing by the second.
His left forefinger found a small loop and pulled hard.
The edge of this vest was just a little stiffer than the fabric would warrant, as were the edges of most of his other vests. This was because through the edging, concealed in the material, ran a length of very thin wire.
The wire, under a low-powered microscope, would prove to have numberless little teeth in it, making it into a tiny hack saw. You could saw through steel bars with it, given time.
Benson held the wire taut by pulling at the little loop into which the lower end was twisted. Then he expanded and contracted his chest muscles rapidly.
In a few seconds the slim, barbed wire had frazzled through the fabric of the vest; and in not many more it had parted the coils of rope. But the train was very near now! Light from its single glaring eye was beginning to touch Benson.
He snapped to a sitting position and his hand flashed to his left leg.
Ike was there. The throwing knife, needle-pointed and razor-edged, was in its holster. Benson had the twin holsters below his knees because a search seldom gets down that far.
The engine behind the glaring light began shrieking like a frightened monster as the brakes ground on. The engineer had seen the body on the tracks and was trying to stop the countless tons behind his locomotive before reaching the spot. A hopeless job.
Dick’s hand swept over the cords at his ankles and they parted. He had just time. The train ground by, with sparks streaming from the iron shoes of the brakes, hardly a second after he had flung himself off the rails.
But a danger past was a danger forgotten. Dick raced by the spot where the battle had taken place and recovered Mike. The little gun was laying on the cinders, in front of the boxcar, where it had fallen from his hand. Then he sped for the fence with no sign in his pale eyes that he realized how close death had been; sped for the fence before the six men, who had trapped him, should learn that their trap had failed.
He just made that, too. Startled yells, shots in the night drowned by the train’s roar, whispering slugs near his head, told him that the gang had discovered the impossible escape and were trying now to set it right with bullets.
Like a huge black cat, The Avenger swung over the fence and was safe. They’d taken those forceps from him; a pat at his pocket proved that. But they hadn’t taken his life, and they’d live to regret that failure.
CHAPTER VIII
Money or the Chair
“I’m certainly glad to see you.”
Markham Farquar’s face showed that he meant the words with all sincerity. The lawyer had leaped from his chair when The Avenger entered his office and had caught Dick Benson’s hand in both of his.
“I haven’t been able to find out a thing about the frame they’re holding over me, Mr. Benson. Not a thing. Have you turned anything up?”
The lawyer ran a hand distractedly through his thick gray hair, and there was something like frenzy in his gray eyes. But Benson didn’t answer that latter question for a moment.
“You say you haven’t been able to find out anything,” he repeated. “You’ve been trying?”
“Yes,” said Farquar. “I’ve been all over the lot, trying to find out where Beall and Cleeves and Salloway keep those fake clues of theirs. Also, I’ve been trying to trace any previous connections of my clerk, Smathers, to see if I can find a hint of what happened to him.” He sighed. “I’ve drawn a
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