The widow listened to his words, and with the submission
which all his associates rendered to him, promised
to do all he commanded.
The first gleam of the morning warned the two men
that they must seek their cover, for despite Jim’s
natural boldness and daring, he was cautious and careful.
Instead of descending to the room which had its entrance
from the alley, they mounted another flight of stairs,
and gaining the roof by means of the scuttle, walked
the flat mansard until another hatch-door was reached,
and through it they entered a quiet, unassuming appearing
house, which stood on the side street from which the
alley branched.
The house, though completely furnished, was vacant,
and the men reached the street without meeting any
one.
Cummings and Moriarity having left, the widow, for
the first time ventured to look at her new charge.
Her keen eyes noted the disguise which Chip had adopted.
The wicked blow which had brought him to this plight
had moved the red wig to one side and disclosed the
dark clustering hair, now bathed and soaked in his
blood.
He was still unconscious, but his strong constitution
was regaining its sway, and he moved uneasily on his
soft couch.
The widow, now remembering the commands which Cummings
had laid upon her, hastened to bring water, and washed
the wound. The slung shot had struck squarely
across the crown of the head, but the cut was not very
large or deep, and the widow, with ready skill, bound
it neatly with bandages, and holding a brandy flask
to his mouth forced some of its contents down his
throat.
The color came back to the detective’s face,
and in a few moments his eyes opened, and with a dazed
expression wandered over the room.
The widow, as she noticed the first signs of returning
consciousness had retired from the room, now, with
consummate skill, put a kindly, even tender, look
toward the sufferer as she reappeared through the door.
Chip, still very much bewildered, his head feeling
as though it was whirling off his shoulders, heard
a pleasant voice asking: “And how is my
poor boy, now?”
Chip gazed vacantly at her, as he responded:
“Who are you? Where am I—my
head—”
“Come, come, don’t talk. Take this
medicine like a good boy, and go to sleep.”
With childlike obedience the detective swallowed the
draught, which soon took possession of his senses,
and he fell asleep.
The widow quietly sat beside him until the opiate
had taken full effect. Then muttering “You
are safe for four and twenty hours,” she descended
to her divining-room, leaving the detective deep in
slumber, and in complete ignorance of his surroundings.
On the watch.
Sam Slade and Chip had been comrades at arms for almost
two years. Many a dashing capture had they made
Adventures and hair-breadth escapes were of frequent
occurrence with the two “dare-devils,”
as the force had dubbed them, and before now each
had saved the other’s life by some bold stroke
or skillful strategy.
