“What is this?” he muttered loudly when a few paces away. “Is it the vodka, or did I turn that handle and leave it so?” With an effort he pulled himself together; suddenly remembering that he had indeed turned the handle and neglected to restore it to its usual position, and realising that it was now closed, he gave a drunken shout and rushed at the door.
Chapter Fourteen.
Almost Trapped.
The sight of a burly, black-bearded Russian of forbidding aspect, half-maddened moreover by drink, rushing at one’s hiding-place, is calculated to inspire the bravest with trepidation, and in the case of Phil and Tony it can be recorded, without fear of their incurring the epithet of coward, that both were more than a little alarmed for their safety. But they were in a cage—in an extremely tight corner without doubt—and, rendered desperate by the knowledge, and that recapture meant, if not death, certainly ill-treatment, they determined to make a light for it.
“Silence him at all costs,” Phil whispered rapidly. “Let him pull the door open, and then drag him in. I leave it to you to silence him, Tony.”
“Ay, I’ll do that, never fear,” was the hurried answer in a tone which showed that though a handkerchief as a gag had possibly occurred to the gallant Tony as a method, yet he knew of other and surer means.
A second later the handle was wrenched open, and the door flew back with a bang, while the Cossack almost fell into the carriage.
There was a swish and a sounding crash, and he flopped into the hay limply, stunned by a heavy blow from Tony’s club, which, had it not been for the thick astrakhan hat the Russian wore, would have settled his fate there and then.