in the direction of Anson
Dalton, whose eyes flashed fire. Trained in a hard, desperate school,
Dalton was fuller of tricks than the police chief had expected.

As Hunter rushed at him, Dalton forcefully pushed one of the small
tables toward him. It struck Hunter amidships, most unexpectedly, and
had the result of sending Mocalee's police force sprawling to the
floor.

"You can't stop me--you shall not!" roared Anson Dalton. He made a
dash for the doorway leading to the office. Swift as he was, Tom
Halstead darted through ahead of him.

"He'll try to get that red bag--and he'll put up a fight with a
pistol!" flashed through the young motor boat skipper's brain. "I'll
fool him so far as the bag is concerned."

Diving into the coat-room, the door of which stood open, Halstead was
in season to snatch up the bag. He turned, to find Dalton rushing at
him, hands reached out.

Ducking under, Tom eluded Dalton, and darted across the office.

"Let some of the others catch him," gritted Halstead, inwardly. "What
we want most to know may be in this bag!"

It was all done so quickly that Skipper Tom was across the office,
pulling open the door into the corridor, before Anson Dalton bounded
after him.

Joe Dawson rushed in from the porch, but too late to be of immediate
help. Officer Hunter had sprawled badly, and Mr. Seaton had halted to
aid him to his feet.

"Drop that bag, or you'll wish you had--no time for this nonsense,"
blazed Dalton, angrily, thrusting his right hand at his hip pocket.

CHAPTER XXIII

HANK BECOMES REALLY TERRIBLE

Bump! Whack!

Tom Halstead tried to slam the door shut in his pursuer's face, but
one of Dalton's feet barred the closing, then thrust the door open.

As Halstead raced into the corridor Anson Dalton was close behind him,
his hand yanking a revolver from his pocket.

There would have been a shot in another instant. Halstead might have
been badly hit.

But Hank Butts, on duty in the corridor, had heard the cries.

As the door was thrust open Hank leaped forward. Out from under his
rain coat he brought that same old hitching weight.

There was an instant, only, for action, but young Butts was an expert
with the weapon he had made his own.

His hands flew aloft, then descended, just as Anson Dalton's left foot
was thrust forward in his running.

"Halt, you----" roared Dalton.

Bim! Down came the hitching weight, and landed squarely across the
left foot of the pursu