He could have stood them off from above and kept the ladder clear with his revolver, but the alarm seemed general now--windows were opening, voices were calling to one another--from the windows across the street he must stand out in sharp outline against the sky.

Yes--he was seen now.
A woman's voice, from a top-story window across the street, screamed out, high-pitched in excitement: "There he is! There he is! On the roof there!" Jimmie Dale started on the run along the roof.

The houses, built wall to wall, flat-roofed, seemed to offer an open course ahead of him--until a lane or an intersecting street should bar his way! But they were not quite all on the same level, though--the wall of the next house rose suddenly breast high in front of him.

He flung himself up, regained his feet--and ducked instantly behind a chimney.
The crack of a revolver echoed through the night--a bullet drummed through the air--the Skeeter and his gang were on the roof now, dashing forward, firing as they ran.

Two shots from Jimmie Dale's automatic, in quick succession cooled the ardour of their rush--and they broke, black, flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too.
And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened.