the walls, and jump up and catch the bars.
They hung there with their feet drawn up a yard from the floor. But rats can climb a seemingly impossible steep wall; so they were kept busy kicking.
The deputy hadn’t thought to do any such thing. And now he couldn’t. He lunged blindly around the room, like a person whose clothes are in flames and hasn’t wit enough to lie down and roll.
And then the man was down, and it was frightful! Mac and Nellie shuddered as the squeaking, slashing mass waved over him.
This was something out of an inferno! An attack by rats! There were many such attacks on record, but always the rodents had been maddened by starvation into attacking humans.
And these rats weren’t starving. They were fat and healthy-looking.
Mac had finally gotten something out of an inner pocket. Fortunately for the sheriffs deputy, the sheriff hadn’t found the thing when he searched Mac.
It was a little glass gas bomb, about the size of a plum.
“Watch it, Nellie!” Mac yelled.
Then he threw the little bomb between the bars of the cell door and into the space beyond.
It plopped on the floor and a pale-greenish cloud spread instantly. And almost as instantly, the rats began dropping like flies sprayed with insecticide.
The gas was not a death-dealer. It produced deep unconsciousness. That is, it did to humans. Whether it would produce death to smaller animals, Mac didn’t know. He hoped it would.
The luckless deputy, a dreadful sight but at least still alive, lay in grateful unconsciousness. The gas had spread to the cells, now, and the rats in there were out of it, too.
Mac took another instrument from an inside pocket. It was a small clip with a kind of tiny sponge at the curve of it.
“Nellie!” said Mac, at the door, exhaling as he called so that he wouldn’t get any of the gas.
He managed to toss the clip so that it fell in front of her door. He saw her manacled hands reach out and pick it up. She’d be all right, with the clip over her nostrils. The spongelike mass was impregnated with a chemical which counteracted the gas.
Mac himself needed no clip. The lapel of his coat was impregnated with the same chemical.
Holding his head down so that he breathed through the lapel, Mac pressed close to the door. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. The rats had done one thing at least.
They had sent the deputy, in his blind gyrations, so close to the cells that, when he fell, he was within reach of Mac’s cell door.
Mac, by squeezing so hard against the bars that most of the hide was scraped from his shoulders and chin, could just get his fingertips under the man’s belt. Then it was short work to drag him closer, and almost as short to get the keys the sheriff had turned over to him. Keys to handcuffs as well as doors.
Mac had thought he heard something, while he was freeing Nellie and himself. The sound was a little like that of distant surf, a queer, growing roar.
The gas was out of the room, now, with windows thrown open. Mac could dispense with the coat lapel, and Nellie removed the nose clip.
“We’ve got to get a doctor for this poor fellow, right away,” said Nellie, looking at the deputy, still unconscious from the gas.
Mac nodded. Getting help gravely increased the risk of not completing their getaway. But it had to be done, of course.
“Voices!” exclaimed Nellie suddenly, listening hard.
So then Mac understood that curious, surflike roar. It was quite close, now.
Voices, of course! Many voices! Many people, roaring in dull fury and advancing on the jail.
“A mob!” said Mac. “What in the worrrld—”
He went to the window and looked out.
The road sign gave the population of Kinnisten as twenty-four hundred. It looked as if every one of the population was outside the jail. Then the Scot saw that the mob was mostly men, though a few women raved their inexplicable fury among them.
One thing all had in common. A fury, a very insanity of hatred seemed to possess
They hung there with their feet drawn up a yard from the floor. But rats can climb a seemingly impossible steep wall; so they were kept busy kicking.
The deputy hadn’t thought to do any such thing. And now he couldn’t. He lunged blindly around the room, like a person whose clothes are in flames and hasn’t wit enough to lie down and roll.
And then the man was down, and it was frightful! Mac and Nellie shuddered as the squeaking, slashing mass waved over him.
This was something out of an inferno! An attack by rats! There were many such attacks on record, but always the rodents had been maddened by starvation into attacking humans.
And these rats weren’t starving. They were fat and healthy-looking.
Mac had finally gotten something out of an inner pocket. Fortunately for the sheriffs deputy, the sheriff hadn’t found the thing when he searched Mac.
It was a little glass gas bomb, about the size of a plum.
“Watch it, Nellie!” Mac yelled.
Then he threw the little bomb between the bars of the cell door and into the space beyond.
It plopped on the floor and a pale-greenish cloud spread instantly. And almost as instantly, the rats began dropping like flies sprayed with insecticide.
The gas was not a death-dealer. It produced deep unconsciousness. That is, it did to humans. Whether it would produce death to smaller animals, Mac didn’t know. He hoped it would.
The luckless deputy, a dreadful sight but at least still alive, lay in grateful unconsciousness. The gas had spread to the cells, now, and the rats in there were out of it, too.
Mac took another instrument from an inside pocket. It was a small clip with a kind of tiny sponge at the curve of it.
“Nellie!” said Mac, at the door, exhaling as he called so that he wouldn’t get any of the gas.
He managed to toss the clip so that it fell in front of her door. He saw her manacled hands reach out and pick it up. She’d be all right, with the clip over her nostrils. The spongelike mass was impregnated with a chemical which counteracted the gas.
Mac himself needed no clip. The lapel of his coat was impregnated with the same chemical.
Holding his head down so that he breathed through the lapel, Mac pressed close to the door. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. The rats had done one thing at least.
They had sent the deputy, in his blind gyrations, so close to the cells that, when he fell, he was within reach of Mac’s cell door.
Mac, by squeezing so hard against the bars that most of the hide was scraped from his shoulders and chin, could just get his fingertips under the man’s belt. Then it was short work to drag him closer, and almost as short to get the keys the sheriff had turned over to him. Keys to handcuffs as well as doors.
Mac had thought he heard something, while he was freeing Nellie and himself. The sound was a little like that of distant surf, a queer, growing roar.
The gas was out of the room, now, with windows thrown open. Mac could dispense with the coat lapel, and Nellie removed the nose clip.
“We’ve got to get a doctor for this poor fellow, right away,” said Nellie, looking at the deputy, still unconscious from the gas.
Mac nodded. Getting help gravely increased the risk of not completing their getaway. But it had to be done, of course.
“Voices!” exclaimed Nellie suddenly, listening hard.
So then Mac understood that curious, surflike roar. It was quite close, now.
Voices, of course! Many voices! Many people, roaring in dull fury and advancing on the jail.
“A mob!” said Mac. “What in the worrrld—”
He went to the window and looked out.
The road sign gave the population of Kinnisten as twenty-four hundred. It looked as if every one of the population was outside the jail. Then the Scot saw that the mob was mostly men, though a few women raved their inexplicable fury among them.
One thing all had in common. A fury, a very insanity of hatred seemed to possess
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