Picking up one of the heavy cloth bags that had contained a part of the scattered coin, the young man clapped it hastily over the bleeding spot, tying it in position with his handkerchief--an action which checked the flow considerably.
"My gold! My precious gold and silver," shrieked Pooler, never deigning to notice the effect of Mosey's hasty shot. "Put it back; put it back in the bags! Oh, don't let them take it! It's mine! All mine!" he whined.
"Never mind," put in Jack. "Don't worry. What's yours shall remain yours. Guess we have them safe, eh, Mr. Farrell?" he continued.
"Looks so," replied the sturdy farmer. "Anyway, I reckon I can keep 'em from going through this door--the pesky critters!" and, with his gun ready for use, the farmer stationed himself in the middle of the passageway, with Deb, Meg and the hired man behind him.
"What's the cause of this row?" asked Jack, hardly knowing how to proceed, the whole affair having happened so unexpectedly.
He looked at Corrigan and then at Mosey, but both of these discomfited individuals remained silent.
"They were trying to rob me of my gold and silver," cried Pooler, "But they sha'n't do it!" he added, vehemently. "It's mine, all mine."
With his restless eyes rolling wildly, the miser--for Max Pooler was naught else--reached out his uninjured arm, and clutching the pieces of money within reach, stowed them away in his bosom.
"Better keep quiet," suggested Mont, placing his hand on the bandaged shoulder. "Your wound may be more serious than you think."
Max Pooler started.