The cab was following
the line of quays as before, but along the northern bank of the
island, that bordering the main stream. It was going at little better
than a foot's pace; the door next which he sat was on the side of the
river. What if he knocked his guardian senseless, striking him a
couple of British blows--one, two, straight from the shoulder--then,
flinging open the door, spring out, and over the parapet into the
swift-flowing Seine? He was an excellent swimmer; once in the water,
surely he might trust to his luck!
These were the arguments in his favour. Against him were the chances
that his companion might show fight; that he might check his
prisoner's exit until his comrade on the box could come to the rescue;
or that some officious bystander might act on the side of the law; or
that a shot might drop him as he fled; or, finally, and most probably
of all, that he might be drowned in the turbulent stream.
Gascoigne was not long in coming to a decision. "Nothing venture,
nothing have," was his watchword. At this moment the cab was near the
end of the Quai aux Fleurs, near the Pont d'Arcole. There was no time
to be lost; at any moment it might turn down from the river, taking
one of the cross streets. Setting his teeth firmly, and nerving
himself for a supreme effort, Gascoigne sprang suddenly upon the
police-agent, twisted his hands inside the stiff stock, and, having
thus nearly throttled him, felled him with two tremendous blows.
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