Kildare looked at his revolvers, then picked up a short-barreled shotgun, and went out into the corridor that led to the door. Reaching the door, he shot open a small panel and shouted:
"Whatever do yer think ye're doin' out thar? Will yer stop thet thar racket, ur shall I guv yer a dost out o' this yar gun!"
"Mr. Kildare, is thot yersilf?" panted a voice, which the sheriff had heard before, and which he immediately recognized.
"Wa'al, 'tain't nobody else."
"Will yes be afther lettin' me in?"
"What's ther matter?"
"Th' lynchers are comin'!"
Kildare peered out, and the moon, which did not happen to be hidden at that moment, showed him the boy who stood alone at the door.
Clank, clank, clank!—the sheriff shot back the bolts which held the door, open it swung a bit, out shot his arm, and his fingers closed on Barney Mulloy's shoulder.
Snap—the boy was jerked into the jail. Slam—the door closed, and the bolts shot back into place.