"Here, I'll take the umbrella!" said a voice he dreaded next to the
Devil's. It was Sheeley; he would go into the barroom, and discover
the wreckage of the slot-machine! Chick was beginning to feel the
handcuffs on his wrists, when he became aware of ascending footsteps
overhead. What were they going up-stairs for? Was it a sparring match?
Forgetting his precarious position he leaned forward to listen,
upsetting a box on the shelf beside him.

"Who's that?" came in Sheeley's fiercest tones from the stairway
above, and Chick cowered back into the dark with chattering teeth.
Then he heard him say something about the window, and followed the
sound of his heavy footsteps down the stairs and up again.

Now was his chance to escape while they were up-stairs. With utmost
caution he pushed open the closet door, and on hands and knees began
his perilous journey to the window. It was at that moment that he
decided positively that he would not be a burglar. A plumber took
fewer risks, and made more money. Once at the window he was unable to
budge the lock. Standing on the sill, whimpering with fear, he
wrestled with it frantically, bruising his fingers, and tearing his
nails, but he could not move it. Then he tried the door but Sheeley
had evidently locked it and taken out the key.

A blinding flash of lightning sent him scurrying back to his hiding-
place, where he sank on the floor, shivering and cringing. Nearer and
nearer roared the thunder, and the wind seemed as anxious to get into
the house as he was eager to get out of it. Gradually his arms and
legs ceased jerking, his head relaxed against an empty box, he laid
his hand against the cheek that had been patted and forgot his
troubles in sleep.