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.