“Open it yourself,” muttered Abel, “when we’re gone. Quick, Bart, lad!”
This remark was addressed to the big fellow’s hind quarters, which were jerking and moving in a very peculiar way, and then Bart’s voice was heard, sounding muffled and angry, warning somebody to keep off.
“Curse it all! too late!” cried Abel, grinding his teeth. “Here, Bart, lad, get through.”
“Can’t, lad,” growled his companion. “I’m ketched just acrost the hips, and can’t move.”
“Come back, then.”
“That’s what I’m a-trying to do, but this son of a sea-cook has got hold of me.”
“Open—in the King’s name!” came from the outer room; and then, just as Abel had seized an old sea-chest and was about to drag it before the door, there was a tremendous kick, the bolt was driven off, the door swung open, and the Dartmouth constable and a couple of men rushed forwards, and, in spite of Abel’s resistance, dragged him into the other room.
“Now, Dell, my lad,” said the head man, “I’ve got you at last.”
“So it seems,” said Abel, who stared hard at his sister as he spoke; while she stood with her hands clasped before her and a peculiarly rigid look on her face, staring wildly back.
“Smuggling and wrecking weren’t enough for you, eh?”