The Fight in the Library

"They're coming faster this time," remarked Stoddard.

"Certainly. Their general has been cursing them
right heartily for retreating without the loot. He wants
his three-hundred-thousand-dollar autograph collection,"
observed Larry.

"Why doesn't he come for it himself, like a man?" I
demanded.

"Like a man, do you say!" ejaculated Larry. "Faith
and you flatter that fat-head!"

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the attacking party
returned after a parley on the ice beyond the boat-house.
The four of us were on the terrace ready for them.
They came smartly through the wood, the sheriff and
Morgan slightly in advance of the others. I expected
them to slacken their pace when they came to the open
meadow, but they broke into a quick trot at the water-tower
and came toward the house as steady as veteran
campaigners.

"Shall we try gunpowder?" asked Larry.

"We'll let them fire the first volley," I said.

"They've already tried to murder you and Stoddard,
-I'm in for letting loose with the elephant guns," protested
the Irishman.

"Stand to your clubs," admonished Stoddard, whose
own weapon was comparable to the Scriptural weaver's
beam. "Possession is nine points of the fight, and we've
got the house."

"Also a prisoner of war," said Larry, grinning.

The English detective had smashed the glass in the
barred window of the potato cellar and we could hear
him howling and cursing below.

"Looks like business this time!" exclaimed Larry.
"Spread out now and the first head that sticks over the
balustrade gets a dose of hickory."

When twenty-five yards from the terrace the advancing
party divided, half halting between us and the
water-tower and the remainder swinging around the
house toward the front entrance.