But in spite of his care the bedstead gave a faint creak, which was followed by a rustling in front; and as he sprang to the door, it was to come in contact with the soft, warm body of the man.
The next moment he was engaged in a wrestling match with an adversary half as strong again as himself, and, in spite of his efforts, he could get no grip of the soft, elastic flesh, whose skin had been lavishly oiled while garments the man had none.
It was a brave effort, though, in which the young officer tried hard to hold the nocturnal visitor by twining arms and legs about him as he was borne here and there, and felt as if he were trying to hold some gigantic eel.
He had succeeded in one thing though. By the dash of his attack he had driven the man back into the sitting-room, where the alarm was given, not by a cry from Dick, but by the knocking over of a couple of chairs, and then by a crash as the wrestlers struck against the table.
The next moment the man had wrested himself free, and Dick was sent staggering into the arms of some one who seized him, yelling loudly for help; and then, quite breathless, he was thrown to the floor, and two men were seated upon him, just as the report of the sentry’s carbine rang out and Wyatt’s door was opened, that individual roaring in Hindustani, “Give up or I’ll run you through.”
“Here, Wyatt,” panted Dick, “make these two fools get off me. A robber! a thief! He’ll escape by the window.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” growled Wyatt. “Who else is here?”
A flash of lightning showed him the two native servants slowly rising from off the prostrate lad, who leaped to his feet and ran to his bedroom window in the darkness now.
“Below there, guard!” he cried.
“All right, sir. What is it?”