“I assure you that I do not,” said Jeff earnestly. “But I’ll change the subject. Did you know there was a much shorter sentence with all the letters in it than we’ve been using? There is. ‘Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.’ It reached me by R. F. D. So did this!”
He rose; the long barrel leaped to level with sinister exultance. “Hold your hands there, Mr. MacGregor—it’ll warm your fingers.”
The MacGregor held his fingers there, eying the unwavering blue barrel steadily. He kept his pipe going. Bransford could not withhold his admiration for such surly, indomitable courage. Making a wary circuit to the rear of the defeated warrior, and keeping him covered, he gingerly reached forth to take the MacGregor gun. “Now you can take ’em down. Come on, boys—all clear!” he said, raising his voice.
Sound of running feet from above; the outer door smashed open. Mac flung his hat over to Jeff and sat glowering in wordless rage. Footsteps hurried down the stairs and the passageway. An ax hewed at the door. It crashed in; Pringle, gun in hand, burst through the splintered woodwork; the others pressed behind. John Wesley leaned upon his ax, fumbled at his coat pocket, and extended the famous leather bottle:
“Well, Brutus, old pal, we meet again! Shall we smile?”
Chapter XV
“If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged.”
—Falstaff.
“At the envoy’s end, I touch!”
—Cyrano.