Then if any
Mexicans--
A step on the tin roof outside frightened me stiff. I had noticed a porch,
or shed, under my window. Some one must have climbed upon it. I stopped
breathing to listen. For what seemed moments there was no sound. I wanted
to think that the noise might have been made by a cat, but I couldn't. I
was scared--frightened half to death.
If there had been a bolt on the window the matter would not have been so
disturbing. I lay there a-quiver, eyes upon the gray window space of my
room. Dead silence once more intervened. All I heard was the pound of my
heart against my ribs.
Suddenly I froze at the sight of a black figure against the light of my
window. I recognized the strange bat, the grotesque outlines. I was about
to shout for help when the fellow reached down and softly began to raise
the sash.
That made me angry. Jerking up in bed, I caught the heavy pitcher from the
wash-stand and flung it with all my might.
Crash!
Had I smashed out the whole side of the room it could scarcely have made
more noise. Accompanied by the clinking of glass and the creaking of tin,
my visitor rolled off the roof. I waited, expecting an uproar from the
other inmates of the hotel. No footstep, no call sounded within hearing.
Once again the stillness settled down.
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