That had been my idea,—­to hide in the attic.  And a very foolish idea it was,—­I can see that now.  It is quite easy—­sitting here and writing about it—­to think of three or four better plans.  I ought to have kept outdoors, and then I could have run around the house, dodged Mr. Snider, and got a clear start again for the road across the marsh.  He could not have caught me then.  The hero of “The Rifle Rangers,” for instance, would have planned all that out while he was running up the road with Mr. Snider ten feet behind.  But I hadn’t planned it.  My one idea was to get away from Mr. Snider.  He looked as if he would murder me,—­or, at any rate, half-murder me, and I did not wish to be murdered, nor even half-murdered.  I had rushed into the house without thinking what I was doing, and now here I was, caught like a rat in a trap, in this hot, dark, and dusty attic.

For I very soon saw that if Mr. Snider came up into the attic there was no place to retreat.  I could hear him now, hunting through all the rooms and closets down below.  As soon as he found I was in none of them, up the attic stair he would come.  And then he would simply poke about among the boxes and trunks until he found me.  I had run up one flight after another until I had reached the top, and now I could go no higher.

No higher?  How about the roof?  There must be a ladder and a scuttle in the roof.  If I could get up there and close the scuttle again perhaps I would be safe.  Mr. Snider might stop at the attic.  I jumped up from behind the trunk and hunted about in the semi-darkness.  There were other trunks and boxes, old shoes and old umbrellas on the floor, and I stumbled and bumped against all of them.  Two or three coats or suits of clothes were swinging from hooks, dangling unpleasantly, like hanging men.  But I found the ladder at last.  There was a faint rim of light above, at the edge of the scuttle.  It was high time I found it, for I could hear Mr. Snider in the room below now, and I felt sure he would come upstairs in a minute.

The ladder was rickety, but it held, and I got to the top, and began to fumble for the hasp or lock of the scuttle.  It was thick with cob-webs and dust, and for a while it refused to move.  While I was working at it I heard Mr. Snider open the door at the foot of the attic stairs.

I stood perfectly still on the ladder.  In books they tell how, when you are frightened, your heart comes into your mouth.  It isn’t at all what happens.  Your heart stays right where it always is, but it thumps so loud that you feel as if it could be heard in the next room.  And your throat becomes horribly dry, all of a sudden, and seems to be closing up.  It gets so narrow that you can scarcely breathe.

Mr. Snider paused for a moment and seemed to listen.  Then he closed the door again and tip-toed away.  I went to work at the hasp again, and finally I had it open.  I raised the scuttle, as quietly as I could, and stepped out on the roof.