“What the mischief!” he ejaculated. “Is this a demoralized sentinel, or a trap set by the hobgoblins?”
“It’s a wheel-barrow, Henry,” Will explained, “that belongs to this place.”
“Oh it belongs here, does it?” Henry asked, struggling to rise.
“Yes, it’s a fixture, Henry, a fixture;” piped up Steve, who had stumbled upon this word in a time-worn document a few days before.
Then Henry essayed to trundle it out of the way; but its wheel howled so piteously for grease that he desisted, saying in disgust, “Why this is as rusty and as worthless as an heir-loom.”
“Oh, we mostly turn it upside down and straighten nails on it,” Steve said, deprecatingly.
“Now,” said Henry, as they strode on, “when you rescuers come, I shall be just behind the front door, and Stephen will be in another room or up-stairs.”
“All right,” replied one of them.
As they were proceeding towards home, Will suddenly espied Marmaduke walking leisurely up the river. Although they had prepared for such a contingency they did not expect it. Did they put faith in their “disguise,” and advance calmly to meet him? Not for one moment! Instantly the greatest consternation prevailed, and they stopped and stared at each other in blank hopelessness.
“Oh, this is awful!” groaned Charles. “Our—plot—”