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watchman was indeed in bad shape. He had been found thrown under a workbench, and just returning to consciousness. He had a cut over his left ear and another on his forehead, from which the blood had flowed freely.

"Must have struck him with a club, or an iron bar," was the opinion of the chief, as the injured man was carried into the office and placed on some chair cushions. Here his wounds were washed and bound up, while one officer ran to get a doctor who lived not a great distance off.

It was some little time before Tony Wells, who was nearly seventy years of age, opened his eyes to stare around him.

"Don't—don't hit me again!" he murmured. "I—I didn't touch you!"

"It's all right, Tony!" said the chief. "Those fellows are gone. You're among friends."

"They—knocked me down!" gasped the old watchman. "I—I—tried to telephone—after the explosion, but—but" He could not go on, and suddenly relapsed again into unconsciousness.