ON THE WARDROBE.
“Don’t worry!” said Harry. “They can’t do it.”
And so it turned out, for whenever a Gnome ventured near and endeavored to place some wood against the foot of the wardrobe, Harry would lean over and extend his right hand, “pop!” would go the pistol, and over the Gnome would tumble.
Perhaps if a large number of them had rushed forward simultaneously, they might have accomplished their purpose; but they were afraid of the mysterious little weapon, that made such a terrible noise and knocked them senseless at a distance of several feet, and only a bold fellow now and then dared venture within range.
Finally, a messenger came with new orders from the King, and the Gnomes began laying the wood in a semicircle about eight feet from the wardrobe and extending from the wall on one side around to the wall on the other side.
“They’re going to smoke us out!” exclaimed Smithkin. “Hit them with your magic weapon, Prince!”
Harry tried to do so, but the string was too short to allow the cork to reach any of them.
“Never mind,” said he; “that little pile of wood is too far away to hurt us. There won’t be smoke enough from it.”
Smithkin shook his head dolefully. “Don’t laugh until they are done!” he said.
Harry did laugh contemptuously, however, while the Gnomes set fire to the wood; but his laugh soon faded away as some of the Gnomes sprinkled a powder on the flames, and immediately a dense, black, stifling smoke slowly arose and curled towards them from all sides.