"Wait," Terry directed Denver. The latter kneeled by his fuse until
Lewison passed far down the end of his beat. Terry stepped to the door
and dropped the bolt.
"Now!" he commanded.
He had planned his work carefully. The loose strips of cords which Denver
had put into his pocket--"nothing so handy as strong twine," he had
said--were already drawn out. And the minute he had given the signal, he
sprang for the men at the table, backed them into a corner, and tied
their hands behind their backs.
The fuse was sputtering.
"Put out the light!" whispered Denver. It was done--a leap and a puff of
breath, and then Terry had joined the huddled group of men at the farther
end of the room.
"Hey!" called Lewison. "What's happened to the light? What the hell--"
His voice boomed out loudly at them as he thrust his head through the
window into the darkness. He caught sight of the red, flickering end of
the fuse.
His voice, grown shrill and sharp, was chopped off by the explosion. It
was a noise such as Terry had never heard before--like a tremendously
condensed and powerful puff of wind.
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