He loved every toe; they were
almost like innocent children. It was a dastardly deed to take
advantage of them thus, but he advanced the revolver until it
pressed firmly against the outside of his left foot, then closed
his eyes, and called upon his courage. There came a great roaring
in his ears.
How long he sat thus waiting for the explosion he did not know,
but he opened his eyes at length to find the foot still intact,
and the muzzle of the weapon pointing directly at his instep. He
altered his aim hurriedly, when, without warning of any sort, a
man's figure appeared silhouetted against the window.
The figure dropped noiselessly to the floor inside the room, and
cried, in a strange voice:
"Lock those doors! Quick!"
Finding that it was no hallucination, Speed rose, calling out:
"Who are you?"
"Sh-h-h!" The stranger darted across the room and bolted both
doors, while the other felt a chill of apprehension at these
sinister precautions. He grasped his revolver firmly while his
heart thumped. The fellow's appearance was anything but
reassuring: he was swarthy and sun-browned, his clothes were
ragged, his overalls were patched; instead of a coat, he wore a
loosely flapping vest over a black sateen shirt, long since
rusted out to a nondescript brown.
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