confusion to make his own escape.

This hurrying figure halted for a half instant in the dim light, for he
heard footsteps on each side of him. He knew the guard was coming.

Sim Gage's summons rang high and clear. Yonder was the man--he was
going to escape. He must not escape. All these things came to Sim
Gage's mind as he half raised his weapon to his shoulder, challenging
again, "Halt! Who goes there? Halt!" The bolt of his Springfield
clinked home once more.

The man turned away, toward the sound of the greater number of his
enemies, weapon in hand. The patrol was closing in. But before he
turned he both gave and received death in the last act he might offer
in treachery to this country, which had been generous and kind to him.

Sim Gage fired with close, sure aim, and cut his man through with the
blow of the Spitzer bullet of the Springfield piece. But even as he
did so Waldhorn himself had fired with the heavy automatic pistol which
he carried. The bullet caught Sim Gage high in the chest, and passed
through, missing the spine by but little. He sprawled forward.

Waldhorn's body was no better than a sieve, for he received the fire of
the entire squad of riflemen who had approached from the other side,
and so many bullets struck him, again and again, that they actually
held him up from falling for an instant.

Now the entire street filled. Foreign or half-foreign laboring folk
came out, soldiers and sailor boys came, jabbering in a score of
tongues. None knew the plot of the drama which had been finished now.
All they knew was that the chief engineer had been killed by the guard.
Very well, but who had shot Scout Gage?

Sim Gage, looking up at the sky, felt the great arm of Flaherty, the
foreman, under his head.

"Easy now, lad," said the big man. "Easy. Lay down a bit, till I have
a look. Where's the Docther, boys?--Get him quick."

"What's the matter?" said Sim Gage. "Lemme up. I fell down--Who hit
me?"

He felt something at his chest, raised a hand, and in turn passed it
before his face in wonderment.

"Well, look at that!" said he. "Did that feller shoot me? Say, did I
get him?"

"Sure, boy!" said Flaherty. "You got him. And so did a dozen more of
the fellies. He's deader'n hell this minute, so don't you worry none
over that. Don't worry over nothing," he added gently, folding his
coat to put under Sim's head. He had seen gun shot wounds before in
his life on the rough