"There, I heard shots!"
"Brave, aren't you?" jeered Tom.
Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.
Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear;
for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and
listened.
Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.
Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet,
while a voice roared hoarsely:
"Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr. Reade,
then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!"
"Fine!" chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even
whiter than the cloths covering them. "That voice sounds familiar to
me, too."
Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as
though others were urging a less violent course.
"It's the workmen from the camp!" guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice
that shook as though from ague.
"Sounds like it," chuckled Tom. "Cheer up, Ashby.
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