"Stand back there!" came from above in a determined voice.
"Stand back there!" I repeated. And at the command and the show of revolvers, the advancing hoodlums swerved aside into the street with a sudden cooling of their ardor for battle.
"Is that you, Mr. Hampden?" came from above, and I recognized the voice of Andrews, the head watchman for the night.
"Yes," I replied. "Be ready to shoot if I give the word." And walking backward I climbed the steps till I stood on the landing and looked down on the mob. Then with an eye on the tossing, circling array of faces below, I knelt over Wharton Kendrick. He was limp and still. A long cut extended from his forehead well back into his hair, and the blood flowing from it had moistened his face and dyed his thinning locks.
I glanced at the mob, noted the signs that it was gathering courage for another attack, and was calculating on the risk of weakening our defense by ordering the men to carry Wharton Kendrick into the house, when I heard the door open behind me. There was a swift patter of footsteps on the walk, and Laura Kendrick flung herself on her knees beside me with a cry of grief and fear, and lifted her uncle's head in her arms.
"Oh," she cried with a choking voice, "have they killed him?"
"No," I replied, "he's alive. He will be all right in a little while." I hoped I was telling the truth. "We'll get him into the house, and have a doctor to look after him as soon as we can drive this mob away. Please go in now. You may be hurt yourself if you stay."
She had been wiping away the blood with her handkerchief, to the soft accompaniment of a crooning utterance, as though she were quieting a sick child.
"Indeed, I shall not go in till he does," she said. "Do you think I shall leave him out here to be killed by those dreadful creatures?"
"Please go," I said. "You can do nothing here, and the mob may begin firing at any minute."