The woman sided with Hobart, the other men apparently
ranged up with "Red," and some very plain talking was indulged in.
McAdams listened grimly, the light through the crack showing his lips
curled in a smile of appreciation. He lowered his head, and with one eye
at the slight opening gained a glimpse of the lighted room beyond. A
moment, motionless, he stared in on the scene; then straightened up, and,
with revolver in hand, signalled to the others to close in closer. They
stood there for a tense instant, poised and eager; then the doors were
flung crashing back, and they leaped recklessly forward, out of the
darkness into the light. It was a furious fight--sharp, merciless,
uncompromising. The thieves, startled, desperate, were hurled back by the
first rush against the further wall, tables and chairs overturned, the
shrieking woman pushed headlong into one corner, and one of the fellows
downed by the crashing butt of a revolver. But the others rallied,
maddened, desperate, rats caught in a trap, fighting as animals fight.
Hobart fired, catching an assailant in the arm; Hogan snatched up a chair
and struck viciously at West, who leaped straight forward, breaking the
full force of the blow, and driving his own fist into the man's face. It
was all over within a minute's fierce fighting--the surprise turning the
trick. Hobart went down cursing, the gun kicked out of his hand, his arm
broken; Hogan, struggling still, but pinned to the floor by three men,
was given a blow to the chin which left him unconscious, while the other
two threw up their hands and yelled for mercy.
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