For a moment he looked down at the man contemptuously. To have
befuddled his brain at such a time! Or was it because the wretch knew
that he, Thomas, would not dare cry out over his loss? He stepped
behind the sleeping man. He wanted to fall upon him, beat him with his
fists. Ah, if he had not found him!
The night, fortunately, was warm and thick. Jameson had carelessly
thrown open his coat and vest. Underneath he wore the usual
sailor-jersey. Thomas steeled his arms. With one hand he pulled the
roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the
string: sought in vain. The light, the four drab walls, the haze of
tobacco smoke, all turned red.
"Where is it, you dog? Quick!" Thomas shook the man. "Where is it?
Quick, or I'll throttle you!"
"Lemme 'lone!" Jameson sagged toward the table again.
Thomas bent him back ruthlessly and plunged a hand into the inside
pocket of the man's coat. The touch of the chamois-bag burned like
fire. He pulled it out and transferred it to his own pocket and made
for the door. He did not care now what happened. Found! Woe to any
one who had the ill-luck to stand between him and the exit.
Outside the door stood the shabby waiter, grinning cheerfully. He was
accompanied by a hulking, shifty-eyed creature.
"Roll 'im, ol' sport? Caught in th' act, huh?" gibed the waiter.
Thomas had the right idea. He struck first. The waiter crashed
against the wall. The hulking, shifty-eyed one fared worse. He went
down with his face to the cracks in the floor. Thomas dashed for the
exit.