“Impossible, Pete. Don’t try; you’ll be shot at. There is sure to be one of the blacks outside the door with a musket.”
“Let him stop there, then. I aren’t going by the door.”
“How, then?”
“Climb up here to where I’ve got a couple o’ them split wooden tiles—shingles, as they call ’em—loose.”
“But you can’t climb up there.”
“Can’t I? Oh yes, my lad. There’s them knot-holes, and I’ve got some pegs cut as fits into ’em, ready to stand on. I can get up easy enough.”
“But the dogs?”
“Well, I smuggled a knife and sharpened it up, and it’s tied to my leg in a sheath I made out of a bit o’ bamboo cane.”
“But it would be madness to fight the poor brutes, and the noise would bring out Saunders with a gun.”
“Just what I thought, my lad,” said Pete, laughing softly; “so I went on the other tack this month past.”