# Rogue for a Day/Chapter 11
### CHAPTER XI.
#### CLOSE QUARTERS

MUGGS stood in front of the door for a moment after Verbeck had dashed from the house, then turned to face the Black Star again. Muggs’ lower jaw was shot out, his eyes were narrowed, and, but for Verbeck’s orders, he probably would have launched himself at the Black Star and attempted the old-fashioned retaliation known as “beating up.”
Muggs was small in size, but he had great strength in his arms and shoulders, and possessed knowledge of a multitude of tricks to aid him in the art of self-defense or aggression. He worshiped Roger Verbeck. He was ready at any time to fight for Verbeck, to defend his life and his happiness. The fact that the Black Star had caused his master misery was enough to make Muggs want to throttle the man. But Verbeck had decreed against that.
Muggs wished he was at his master’s side, helping him in the fight. He imagined Verbeck driving the roadster at top speed through the streets to the big hall; he fancied him entering upon the brilliant scene there, as he had intended doing at a later hour, getting Faustina Wendell and her brother to places of safety, then witnessing the capture of the Black Star’s band. He anticipated a telephone call from Verbeck telling of success.
Meanwhile he walked back and forth before his prisoner, the pistol held in his hand, and raged at the man on the divan.
“A cur like you causing a man like Mr. Verbeck pain!” he exclaimed. “Killing’s too good for you! I hope you get a life sentence. But he’s got you, Mr. Black Star! My boss has you! Have your little signs pasted on his bed and all over his library, will you? Leave sassy letters for him, eh? I reckon you’re sorry for it now!”
The Black Star still was smoking the cigar Verbeck had given him. He blinked at Muggs, and puffed at the cigar furiously, then suddenly bent forward and bowed his head on his hands.
“That’s right!” Muggs went on. “Think of your sins! Do a little wailing yourself! Cause my boss trouble, will you? You’d better put your head in your hands and wish you’d played straight! Small good it will do you to repent now, you scum!”
The Black Star’s head bent lower; he was a picture of misery. Muggs looked at him with scorn and turned to walk the length of the room. He stopped his tirade long enough to pick up a sandwich from the table and begin eating it. He imagined the Black Star about to weep because disaster had overtaken him—and Muggs always felt disgusted when he saw a man weep.
But the Black Star was not weeping—he was endeavoring a subterfuge. When he bowed his head, the burning end of his cigar rested against the rope that bound his wrists together. Now and then he puffed again, until the rope was scorched. Strand after strand was burned through as Muggs talked.
“Getting your dirty hands on your betters and making them join your gang!” Muggs said, walking back toward him. “You got your hands on one too many, I guess. And I’ll be a witness at your trial, too! I’ll help send you over the road——”
He had passed the Black Star and was about to turn. And at that instant the Black Star sprang. Muggs was taken unawares. A fist dealt him a blow on the back of the head. As he staggered forward, trying to turn, the pistol was wrenched from his hand and the butt of it crashed against his temple. The Black Star struck him even as Muggs had struck the Black Star in his headquarters room, when Roger Verbeck was shot into the pit.
“Take that, you whelp!” the Black Star cried. “Try conclusions with me, will you—you and your precious master? You haven’t whipped me yet! There’s something in that old house I want—money, and those letters—money to get me away to Chicago, and the letters to send to the prosecuting attorney with a sarcastic little note. I’ll fix your precious master and his girl. And while he’s trying to save her I’ll be taking a train out of town. As for my crooks—bah! I never saw their faces—they are no friends of mine. Let ’em go to prison—there are plenty more crooks to be had!”
He kicked the prostrate Muggs and hurried from the house. He did not know exactly in what part of the city he found himself, but he made for a crossing where he had seen a trolley car flash past, where he could make a start downtown.
And Muggs, groaning in pain, remained on the floor, but he was not fully unconscious. He had heard every word uttered by the Black Star—they seemed to ring in his brain. He kept telling himself he wanted to get up, he wanted to do something—but he could not. He struggled mentally to rise, and finally his will was communicated to his muscles. He rolled over, sat up on the floor.
Dizziness overcame him, but he closed his eyes and bit his lower lip and tried to master it. And in time he did, and staggered to the divan and fell upon it.
What was it the Black Star had said? That he was going to his headquarters to get money and letters, that he was going to leave the members of his band to their fate, and make his escape. He must stop the Black Star! Verbeck’s plans would be shattered unless he did. And the Black Star would be a living menace to Verbeck unless he was stopped, and perhaps would build up another organization in some other city. Even in this moment of pain, Muggs, though claiming no superior power of reasoning, could not help but think what a fool the Black Star had been to tell Verbeck his schemes. That was the man’s weakness—he had to boast. It was boasting that had brought him to the close attention of Roger Verbeck and caused all the trouble.
“My hunch—was right,” Muggs muttered. “I told the boss—that I had a hunch!”
He sat up again; the dizziness had passed, but his head still pained. He must act quickly, he kept telling himself over and over. Then the plan for which he had been groping flashed into his brain.
Muggs sprang to the telephone and called police headquarters. He got the chief on the wire.
“The Black Star has escaped!” he cried. “You’ll get his gang down at the dance, but you’ll not get him unless you hurry. He knocked me down and escaped. I know where you can catch him—if you’re quick!”
Shotted queries and commands came to him from the frenzied chief.
“A house—in the south end of town!” Muggs gasped. “A deserted house—he has his headquarters there! He’s gone there to get money, then he’ll get out of town. You can catch him! . . . What’s that? Oh, yes—I didn’t give you the address!”
Muggs swayed from the telephone, but in a moment had gathered his strength and was talking again. He gave the location of the house, and the chief said that he understood.
“And I’ll be there—I’ll start right now,” Muggs added. “I’ll be there to identify him——”
Sudden decision had come to Muggs, and he stumbled away from the instrument without further words, not even stopping to hang up the receiver. He hurried across to the door and threw it open and went out. The stinging cold air refreshed him. He started along the driveway.
By the time he reached the boulevard, Muggs was himself again, except that the pain pounded in his head because of the blows the Black Star had given him. He hurried along the street, half running. On the first corner he waited for a car.
An automobile came along, bound for town, and Muggs hailed the driver. He was a private chauffeur going to the big hall to fetch home from the ball some of the women of the family for which he worked. Muggs told him it was a matter of life and death, and the chauffeur allowed him to crawl up beside him and put on speed. Five minutes later, well down in town, Muggs got off and hailed the first taxicab he saw, offering double pay if good time was made, and the cab soon was rushing toward its destination.
The police had acted promptly on Muggs’ information, and as the taxicab whirled around a corner half a dozen blocks from the goal, Muggs could hear in the distance the shrieking of a siren on a police automobile. He urged his chauffeur to greater speed. At a corner he stopped the cab, paid the driver, and the next moment was running down the dark side street toward the deserted house.
He slipped along the hedge and crept near the wall, making his way toward the door. It was closed, and Muggs did not try to open it, but went on to a window. He raised it as he had that first night when Verbeck had been with him. Muggs wanted to get inside and catch the Black Star at work. He wanted just one blow at the Black Star before the police arrived, for the blow that had been given him, and for the misery Verbeck had been caused. Then he’d gladly hand the Black Star over to the authorities.
He slipped through the window. As he did so the police automobile stopped on the nearest corner, and men piled out of it and ran forward to surround the house. Muggs gave them one glance, then left the window and stepped softly across the room. Light was coming through that crack in the door—the Black Star was there!
Muggs put his eye to the crack. He did not see the Black Star—he saw Roger Verbeck just blowing out the candle and starting to enter the dusty hall!
The meaning of the situation flashed over Muggs in an instant. The Black Star had not arrived yet. Verbeck had come here to get those letters before going to the big hall. And he—Muggs—had brought the police! They would capture Roger Verbeck—and there was nothing to prove that Roger Verbeck was not the Black Star!