Binney was last to get a drink. That half-emptied the pail.
“Pour the rest in another paper bag,” says Mark, “and tie it with a string. Hang it up-stairs. M-m-most of it will stay long enough. Then f-fill your bucket again and hang that up-stairs. We won’t run any more risks.”
“Listen,” says Plunk.
It was now pretty dark. The moon showed just a little, but there were clouds which kept covering it up, and when they did you couldn’t see a dozen feet away. But you could hear. We listened like Plunk told us to, and heard several men scurrying around down below. Then the moon popped out the clearest it had been and we saw!
“My scheme,” says Mark, under his breath. “I knew he’d f-f-figger it out.”
It was a scheme, all right. The Man had made a regular lean-to of planks. It was just as wide as the stairs and high enough to cover a man. Other planks about three feet long made a roof to it so we couldn’t get at the attackers from above. One man was right behind it, and all four of the others were close to him, hanging on to a two-by-four that pushed it. It was a sort of battering-ram except that you didn’t batter with it—you just pushed it along in front of you and shoved anybody out of the way. There wasn’t a way in the world for us to stop them.
“Better screech them screeches,” says I to Mark.
“Just a minute,” says he. “Help me with that b-b-barrel.”
Mark had the barrel half-full of heavy stuff. The barrel itself was one of those big oil barrels, and weighed about a ton. We rolled it to the top of the stairs.
“Wait till I give the w-w-word,” says he. “When I let out the signal, give her a shove.”