Having gotten what he came for, he once more shouldered his crowbar,
and let himself out into the dark passage. Here he stopped in terror!
Something was snorting and hissing without, something that sounded as
if it _might_ be the Devil!

In Chick's creed there was but one affirmation. He believed absolutely
in the Devil. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was red,
and cloven-footed and that his tail ended in a hard, sharp, spike,
like Mammy Flathers' ice-pick. He also knew that when he breathed, it
was in groans and hisses, such as he was hearing at the present
moment. Chick's hair would have risen on his head, it wanted to, but
it was not long enough.

For a moment he stood breathless, then he drew a sigh of relief. It
wasn't anything but an automobile after all! He tiptoed to a window
and peered out. The lamps from the machine threw long lights across
the shining wet street, but nothing else was visible.

After a long while he heard voices at the side door. Somebody was
coming into the saloon! He could hear the doorknob turning, and a key
in the latch. He started back to the barroom, then remembering a
little closet under the steps where he and Skeeter used to play, he
felt along the wall. There it was! And just in time for him to stumble
in and pull the door to, leaving enough crack to breathe through, in
case his breath ever came back.

The side door was flung open, and the sputter of a match was followed
by the feeble light from a gas-jet at the end of the passage.