Hurricane Bob was growling low and ominously; I could distinctly hear footsteps, and thought I could distinguish voices confabbing in whispers near the van.
It was almost pitch dark now, and from the closeness of the night it was evident a thunderstorm would burst over us.
Silencing the dog, I quickly got on my clothes, just as the caravan began to shake and quiver, as if some one were breaking open the after-door.
My mind was made up at once. I determined to carry the war into the enemy’s quarters, so, seizing my sword, I quietly opened the front door, and slid down to the ground off the coupé.
I got in beneath the caravan and crept aft. There they were, whoever they were; I could just perceive two pairs of legs close to the caravan, and these legs were arrayed in what seemed to me to be white duck trousers. “Now,” said I to myself, “the shin is a most vulnerable part; I’ll have a hack at these extremities with the back of the sword.”
And so I did.
I hit out with all my might.
The effect was magical.
There was a load roar of pain, and away galloped the midnight marauders, in a wild and startled stampede.
And who were they after all? Why, only a couple of young steers, who had been chewing a bath towel—one at one end, the other at the other—that Foley had left hanging under the van.