“Stand aside!” he cried, his voice ringing out clear. “Stand from that door, man, or, by the gods of war! you will wish you had!”
There was fire in Frank Merriwell’s eyes, there was electricity in every gesture, and the words left his lips like musket shots.
Wynne arose.
“By Jawve!” he drawled. “It weally looks like a wow, don’t yer ’now! If there is anything I detest it is a nawsty wow.”
Then Wynne advanced toward the door, shaking his cane at Durant in a fierce way that was ludicrously weak and foppish.
“Get wight away fwom that door!” he squawked. “If you attempt to detain me, sir, I will cwack your blooming head with this stick!”
Frank saw the newspaper correspondent had aroused to the peril of the situation, and that gave the boy a feeling of satisfaction. He had not wished to leave the place unaccompanied by Wynne, but now Wynne was ready to get out, if possible.
Durant made a sign, and the other desperate characters of the place flocked to his side.
“You will not leave this place till we say you may go,” declared the anarchist, his lips curling back from his wolfish teeth. “One of you—perhaps both—may not leave it at all.”
“But I say, old chappie, what is the meaning of this?” demanded Wynne, apparently in a flutter. “Will you tell us what we have done?”