Wise in his generation, he first made a circuit of the building, and discovered there were no exits through the blackened gates. Then, pulling both doors open wide:
“Come out, bo’!” he said.
The barn was empty, except for a heap of hay that lay in one corner and some old and wheelless farm-wagons propped up on three trestles awaiting the wheelwright’s attention.
A ladder led to a loft, and the guard climbed slowly. His head was on a level with the dark opening, when:
“Put up your hands!”
He was looking into the adequate muzzle of an automatic pistol.
“Come down, bo’!”
“Put up your hands,” hissed the voice in the darkness, “or you’re a dead man!”
The watcher obeyed, cursing his folly that he had come alone.
“Now climb up.”