As he spoke he was unfastening the hank of clothes line which hung ready for use near the fire. He handed Martin his gun, while Abbershaw, more alert this time, held up their captives. As he corded up the four, Martin Watt, still breathless, recounted briefly the events which had led up to the scene they had just witnessed.
“We got into the kitchen first,” he said. “There didn’t seem to be a soul about except the women. They started to scream the place down though, so we tied ’em up. It wasn’t till we’d done that that we realized that Chris wasn’t with us. We guessed he’d met trouble, so we started to go back. We hadn’t got halfway across the room, though, before the door burst open and a man came in.”
He paused and took a deep breath.
“I told him to put up his hands or I’d fire at him,” he went on jerkily, “but he didn’t. He just came for me, so I did fire. I didn’t hit him, of course—I didn’t mean to—but the noise seemed to start things up generally. There seemed to be footsteps all round us. We didn’t know where to shove the cove. The door into here seemed handy and we’d just got him inside when these four charged in on us from the kitchen passage. Michael had got the first fellow’s gun by that time. He lost his head a bit, I guess, and blazed at them—shooting wildly over their heads most of the time. Then one of the fellows got him and he curled up on the sink over there with his gun underneath him. By this time, however, I’d got ’em fairly well under control, God knows how.”
The boy spoke modestly, but there were indications of “how” upon the faces of their captives.
“I got them to stick up their hands,” he continued, “and then I yelled to Wyatt to get their guns.”
He paused, and glanced at the silent figure hunched up on the flags.
“Poor old chap,” he said. “I think he went barmy—almost ran amok. He got the guns all right—there were only two of them—and before I could stop him or yell at him even, he had chucked them into that bricked-up place over there. See what it is? A darn great well—I heard them splash ages after they went in. I bawled at him, but he yelled out what sounded like ‘Sweet Seventeen’ or something equally potty, grabbed that scoop, and began to lay about with it like a loony.” He shook his head and paused for breath. “Then a foul thing happened,” he went on suddenly. “One of them came for me—and I warned him I’d shoot, and finally I tried to, but the thing only clicked in my hand. The shot I had already fired must have been the last. Then we closed. When you came in the other three were trying to get at Prenderby for his gun—he was knocked out, you know—and old Wyatt was lashing round like the flail of the Lord. Then, of course, you just finished things off for us.”
“A very pretty tale of love and war,” murmured Mr. Campion, some of his old inanity returning. “ ‘Featuring Our Boys. Positively for One Night Only.’ I’ve finished with the lads now, Doc—you might have a look at the casualties.”
Abbershaw lowered his revolver, and approached Prenderby with some trepidation. The boy lay on the stone sink dangerously doubled up, his face hidden. A hasty examination, however, disclosed only a long superficial scalp wound. Abbershaw heaved a sigh of relief.
“He’s stunned,” he said briefly. “The bullet grazed along his temple and put him out. We ought to get him upstairs, though, I think.”
“Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Martin cheerfully. “Hang it, our way is fairly clear now. Gideon and a thug are upstairs, you say, safely out of the way; we have four sportsmen here and one outside; that’s seven altogether. Then the doctor lad and his shover are still away presumably, so there’s only old Dawlish himself left. The house is ours.”
“Not so eager, not so eager!” Albert Campion strolled over to them as he spoke. “Old Daddy Dawlish is an energetic bit of work, believe me. Besides, he has only to get going with his Boy Scout’s ever-ready, self-expanding, patent pocketknife and the fun will begin all over again. No, I think that the doc had better stay here with his gun, his patient and the prisoners, while you come along with me. I’ll take Prenderby’s gun.”
“Righto,” said Martin. “What’s the idea, a tour of the works?”
“More or less,” Campion conceded. “I want you to do a spot of ambulance work. The White Hope of our side is draped tastefully along the front stairs. While you’re gathering up the wreckage I’ll toddle round to find Poppa von Faber, and on my way back after the argument I’ll call in for the girls, and we’ll all make our final exit en masse. Dignity, Gentlemen, and British Boyhood’s Well-known Bravery, Coolness, and Distinction are the passwords of the hour.”
Martin looked at him wonderingly. “Do you always talk bilge?” he said.
“No,” said Mr. Campion lightly, “but I learnt the language reading advertisements. Come on.”
He led the way out of the brewhouse into the kitchen, Martin following. On the threshold he paused suddenly, and an exclamation escaped him.
“What’s happened?” Abbershaw darted after them, and the next moment he, too, caught his breath.
Wendon, the man Campion had laid out not ten minutes before, and left lying an inert mass on the fibre matting, had vanished utterly. Campion spoke softly, and his voice was unusually grave.
“He didn’t walk out of here on his own,” he said. “There’s not a skull on earth that would withstand that tap I gave him. No, my sons, he was fetched.” And
