"VI ET ARMIS"
When uncle and nephew regained the lower floor they found that Armstrong
had not been idle. From one side of the room he had hauled a long, stout
table and set it up endwise against the door, between that and the
printing press.
"Capital!" said Mr. Pratt. "You have doubled the thickness of our
armour. But, in default of sandbags, we must find something to
strengthen our defences still further."
"I had thought of that, sir," said Armstrong. "There's nothing but this
bale of paper and the sheets already printed. I think they will pretty
well fill the space between the press and the door; if not we can get
some of the boxes from below. They are no longer needed there."
"Excellent idea! You young fellows set about that while I keep watch."
In a few minutes the boys had wedged the paper and a number of boxes
into the vacant space, so as to form almost a solid block. Mr. Pratt
meanwhile reported the movements of the enemy without.
"Gradoff is surrounded by his gang. He is haranguing them. Two of them
have gone away towards the river. Nick Rush looks a little
uncomfortable. No doubt he prefers stealth and secrecy, and has visions
of the interior of a prison cell. Wonderful how brave a man can be if
he thinks he will not be found out. They are taking off their coats.
Aha! They are going to ram us. The two men have returned with a long
pole. A pity I had those trees felled; pity, too, that I had the
parapet so thoroughly repaired, or we might have hurled stones upon our
assailants in the manner of our ancestors. They used boiling oil, too,
molten lead, and various other pleasant devices which are out of our
power. Ah! The performance is about to begin. Six of them have lifted
the pole--a fine, straight piece of timber. One of the strangers, I
observe, is lending a hand. Gradoff is usually so calm and
self-contained that the excitement with which he is now giving orders is
somewhat amusing. What weapons have we, by the way?"
"I have that fellow Jensen's pistol, sir," said Armstrong. "Besides
that we have only short cudgels."
"And the hammer and chisel," added Percy.
"We are unexpectedly well off," said Mr. Pratt. "I think I will take the
pistol; no doubt I am a little more used to that sort of thing than
Armstrong. For the rest--come, my lads, Gradoff has finished. Stand
ready!"
The position now was that before an entry could be forced, the door must
be broken, and the barricade of table, boxes and paper overthrown. Mr.
Pratt and the boys had just posted themselves beside the printing press,
when there was a thundering crash at the door. The room seemed to
quiver; some of the upper sheets of paper rose and fell as if a wind had
blown upon them; and the vibration caused the printing press to give
forth a low ringing note. But the stout oaken door had not yielded.
There were shouts outside. A few moments passed; then the building
shook under the impact of a second stroke.
"Heart of oak!" exclaimed Mr. Pratt, with satisfaction. "The door is
oak; the ram, I think, is beech. Listen."
The tones of Gradoff's voice, soaring to an unnatural pitch, were heard
chiding, urging, encouraging. A third time his men advanced, not with
the cheery unisonal "Yo! ho!" of British tars, but each man raising his
particular cry.
"More vim in that," remarked Armstrong, as the shattering blow
resounded. "And look, sir."
About a foot below the upper hinge of the door, which was not covered by
the table, a jagged streak of light shone through.
"Yes," said Mr. Pratt, coolly. "They have cracked the shell. The
hinges will give. In five or six minutes they will be scrambling over
our barricade. I find I have only four cartridges; they must be
reserved for the critical moment. Percy, run upstairs and bring down the
hammer and chisel--yes, and the chain. I have no objection whatever to
turning the enemy's weapons against him."
While Percy was absent, the assailants, who had evidently marked the
damage already done, again rammed the door, on the same side. There was
a flood of light through a gap nearly a foot square; splinters of timber
across the upturned end of the table fell at Armstrong's feet. At the
next blow the door split from top to bottom, and the whole of the upper
part fell inwards. Apparently the enemy guessed that some attempt at a
barricade had been made, for their next stroke was delivered lower down,
with such force that it broke through the door, drove the table in, and
sent some of the piled-up boxes toppling.
"Won't you now try a shot, sir?" said Armstrong.
"They have drawn back; next time," replied Mr. Pratt. "Stand clear."
Once more the battering-ram was rushed forward. It could now be seen
that the shorter men held the fore part; the taller men were behind. Mr.
Pratt raised his arm, but before he could take deliberate aim the
forceful stroke carried the remnants of the door inwards, and hurled the
shattered table, broken boxes, and flying sheets of paper in one
indistinguishable mass upon the printing press, which gave way and fell
with a mighty crash upon the floor. Mr. Pratt barely escaped being
overthrown with it. He staggered backward, and the pistol was knocked
from his hand. The small figure of the Italian chauffeur leapt into the
breach, and began to clamber over the wreckage. Armstrong darted
forward, and, before the man had time to swing round, Armstrong's cudgel
descended with a resounding crack upon his skull, and he fell sprawling
among the litter.
[Illustration: "HE STAGGERED BACKWARD, AND THE PISTOL WAS KNOCKED FROM
HIS HAND."]
But Maximilien Rod was at his heels. Stumbling over him, the cook
plunged head foremost among the boxes, only his fall saving him from
Armstrong's club. Immediately behind him dashed the tall Pole. Having
no time to swing his cudgel, Armstrong jabbed at him, and catching him
under the chin sent him reeling against the doorpost. Meanwhile Mr.
Pratt had disengaged himself from the obstructing press and regained his
pistol, just as Rush and his big comrade of the island forged through
the opening. The Pole had sprung to his feet with catlike agility. A
revolver cracked. Mr. Pratt recoiled, rapidly changed his pistol from
the right hand to the left, and fired.
There was a sudden lull. Rush and the Finn had slipped back out of
harm's way. Through the smoke Armstrong saw two men on the floor--the
chauffeur whom he had felled, and the Pole, victim to Mr. Pratt's
pistol.
"Back to the stairs!" murmured the old gentleman. He tottered.
"Are you hit, sir?" cried Armstrong, darting to his support.
"Yes. Leave me and hold the stairs."
At this moment the entrance was darkened by the forms of the remaining
members of the attacking party, Rush and the Finn, urged forward by
Gradoff and his friends. Armstrong, holding Mr. Pratt, felt that the
game was up. But now came Percy leaping down the winding stairs. Into
the room he dashed, carrying a long bar of iron. Taking in the situation
at a glance, he flung himself at the foremost intruders. Rush doubled
up under his vehement onslaught; Sibelius recoiled upon Gradoff; and the
momentary check gave Armstrong time to haul Mr. Pratt out of the light
to the foot of the dark stairway. Swiftly withdrawing from the heap of
wreckage, Percy had barely joined them and helped to draw his uncle up a
few steps to the protection of the curving wall, when four pistols
cracked, and chips of stone fell clattering upon the stairs.
Immediately afterwards a burly arm and shoulder showed itself in the
round of the wall. Quick as thought Percy lunged with his iron bar and
jabbed the intruder just below the elbow. The man threw out a hoarse,
savage cry, and disappeared. For a brief space there was silence; then
came the noise of heavy feet kicking aside the debris in the room below,
and rushing towards the stairway.
"Leave me," said Mr. Pratt again, sitting on one of the steps.
Armstrong sprang down, and darting in front of Percy, came face to face
with one of the strangers, who was rounding the corner, brandishing a
pistol. Unprepared, apparently, for sudden counter-attack, and
incommoded by the right-hand twist of the narrow staircase, the man let
slip his momentary chance of firing point-blank, but had enough presence
of mind to dodge the blow Armstrong aimed at him. If there had been
room for two abreast on the stairs it might have gone ill with Armstrong
then; he staggered forward and thrust his hands against the wall to save
himself from falling. Behind him, however, Percy had swiftly taken his
cue. With his extemporised pike he caught the stranger in the middle.
The man recoiled upon his companions in the rear. A storm of curses
broke from them, but in a few moments the din subsided, and nothing was
heard except the low voices of the enemy in consultation.
"Jolly good weapon," whispered Armstrong, indicating the iron bar.
"Where did you get it?"
"Wrenched it off my uncle's bedstead," replied Percy.
"Any more?"
"One."
"Well, leave me this and go and get it, old chap. It's more useful than
the club."
"Is there time?"
"I think so. They won't know quite what to do. But hurry up. I'll
look after your uncle--give him first aid. He ought to go upstairs; by
the time you're down again I'll have him ready to move."
"Much hurt, Uncle?" asked Pratt, bending down.
"A furrow ploughed in my forearm; nothing vital. Perhaps one of you will
bind up the wound for me."
"I'll do that, sir," said Armstrong. "Cut away, Percy."