Part 43 (1/2)

Magnificent! We can hold this room for a year against those drunken sheep....”

The din outside grew deafening. One man, braving Henry's threat, had made a bolt across the star-lit s.p.a.ce to the house, and no shot had rung out from the upstairs window. Others had instantly followed, and the little front porch now echoed under many feet. Yet, boisterous as they were, the mobbers seemed to hesitate at taking the front door at a rush, as though fearful of what reception might await them in the dark and silent hall beyond.

But now a stone crashed through a front window downstairs, and a man's voice rang out suddenly so close that it seemed to be inside the parlor:

”One minute to come out fair in the open, Stanhope, or we'll set a light to this house, so help us G.o.d!”

Mr. Stanhope gave a low cry. ”Call to them, Henry!” he ordered, wildly.

”Quick! Tell them I'm coming out this minute.”

Henry, his back against the door, did not stir.

”_Hare_ you goin' out, sir?”

”No,” said Varney, ”he isn't. But I am.”

Peter came further into the pretty room, impatient eyes fixed on Varney.

”What fool's talk is this?” he demanded roughly. ”n.o.body is going out.

We four--”

Another loud crash of broken gla.s.s drowned him out. In Varney's eye the look of anxiety had deepened. He understood everything at a glance.

Adroit proddings of a few poor Hackleys, some cheap liquor, the word pa.s.sed to Maginnis as from a friend--this was how the boss of Hunston had plotted to set his heel upon Reform and stamp it out forever. He came three steps back into the room, sternly.

”You were a monumental fool to let them send you here, Peter--”

But the swelling tumult without made parley out of the question.

”No time for talk!” roared Peter. ”It's fight now--before they are in on us! Lights out--and to the front, all of us!”

”Right hoh!” cried Henry, man to man, and ran out the door.

”No, no!” protested Mr. Stanhope thickly, ”it is n't fair--”

Peter wheeled and looked at him, personally, for the first time. He had recognized him instantly, and now when he saw what he saw on that sickly green face, his fine eyes hardened.

”Four, I said? I see there are only three men here. No matter--three good ones are more than enough. Larry, stay here! I'll take the front door--the man the front windows--”

But Varney blocked his way to the door with a face more resolute than his own.

”Stand back, Peter. We'll do nothing of the sort. Those are Ryan's men out there. They don't want Mr. Stanhope--you know that. I don't like this place anyhow--I'm going to get out--”

”I'll sizzle in h.e.l.l if you do!” bellowed Peter, and violently pinioned his arms.

But Stanhope, clutching at the chance, struck again for the safety of his skin. ”He ought to go,” he cried swiftly. ”It is n't my quarrel--don't you see? Let go his arm there--you bully!--let him go!”

The shock of that, curiously, surprised Peter into complying. He dropped Varney's arms, turned swiftly to the author and fixed him with a look for which, alone, another man would have cried for his blood. ”Did I hear you aright?” he said in an oddly still voice. ”Do I understand you to suggest that he be sent out there alone?”

Mr. Stanhope shrank before that look, but this was the utmost concession to it.

”It's not my quarrel,” he said moistening his lips--and suddenly, glancing over Peter's shoulder, his eyes lit with a frightened gleam of triumph. ”It's he they--”