“Show the light, and see where that fellow came over the wall, Cob,” whispered Uncle Dick; and I made the light play along the top, expecting to see a head every moment. But instead of a head a pair of hands appeared over the coping-stones—a pair of great black hands, whose nails showed thick and stubby in the lantern light.
“There, take that,” said Uncle Dick, giving the hands a quick tap with his stick. “I don’t want to hurt you, though I could.”
By that he meant do serious injury, for he certainly hurt the owner of the hands to the extent of giving pain, for there was a savage yell and the hands disappeared.
Then there was a loud scuffling noise and a fresh pair of hands appeared, but they shared the fate of the others and went out of sight.
“Nice place this,” said Uncle Bob suddenly. “Didn’t take return tickets, did you?”
“Return tickets! No,” said Uncle Jack in a low angry voice. “What! Are you tired of it already?”
“Tired! Well, I don’t know, but certainly this is more lively than Canonbury. There’s something cheerful about the place. Put up your umbrellas, it hails.”
I was nervous and excited, but I could not help laughing at this, for Uncle Bob’s ideas of hailstones were peculiar. The first that fell was a paving-stone as big as a half-quartern loaf, and it was followed by quite a shower of the round cobbles or pebbles nearly the size of a fist that are used so much in some country places for paths.
Fortunately no one was hit, while this bombardment was succeeded by another assault or attempt to carry the place by what soldiers call a coup de main.
But this failed, for the hands that were to deal the coup received such ugly taps from sticks as they appeared on the top of the wall that their owners dropped back and began throwing over stones and angry words again.