The fellow he had kicked was
already up, doubled from the pain of the blow, but with mad eyes
glaring at him. Hobart had struggled to his knees, cursing fiercely as
he swept the blood out of his eyes. They would both be on him again in a
minute, more desperate than ever, and the door was locked--there was no
chance there. The window! Ay! there was the window. Death either way,
yet a chance; and he was man enough to take it. He leaped on the chair,
and clambered up; he heard Hobart swear, and felt the grip of a hand on
his dangling leg; kicked himself free, and was on the ledge. He never
looked below, or took time to poise for the leap. Heedless, desperate,
scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung his body out over the
edge, and fell.
CHAPTER XVIII
UNDER COVER
The shed roof was below, and he struck it, fortunately feet first, but
the sharp slant of the boards sent him hurtling forward over the edge
into a miscellaneous pile of boxes beneath, his body finally resting on
the hard ground. He lay there dazed, the breath knocked entirely out of
him, bruised, and scarcely certain whether he was dead or alive. For the
moment, he seemed to have lost all consciousness, unable to realize even
what had occurred in that upper room, or to comprehend the necessity of
immediate flight. All about him was intense darkness, and, after the
crash of his fall, no sound broke the silence. He could see nothing, hear
nothing to arouse his faculties; his flesh quivered with pain, although
he felt sure no bones were fractured, for he could move both arms and
limbs freely, while after the first shock, his mind returned to activity,
dominated by the single conviction that he must get away from there
before those men could get down stairs.
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