In a few minutes the boys had wedged the paper and a number of boxes into the vacant space, so as to form almost a solid block. Mr. Pratt meanwhile reported the movements of the enemy without.
"Gradoff is surrounded by his gang. He is haranguing them. Two of them have gone away towards the river. Nick Rush looks a little uncomfortable. No doubt he prefers stealth and secrecy, and has visions of the interior of a prison cell. Wonderful how brave a man can be if he thinks he will not be found out. They are taking off their coats. Aha! They are going to ram us. The two men have returned with a long pole. A pity I had those trees felled; pity, too, that I had the parapet so thoroughly repaired, or we might have hurled stones upon our assailants in the manner of our ancestors. They used boiling oil, too, molten lead, and various other pleasant devices which are out of our power. Ah! The performance is about to begin. Six of them have lifted the pole--a fine, straight piece of timber. One of the strangers, I observe, is lending a hand. Gradoff is usually so calm and self-contained that the excitement with which he is now giving orders is somewhat amusing. What weapons have we, by the way?"
"I have that fellow Jensen's pistol, sir," said Armstrong. "Besides that we have only short cudgels."
"And the hammer and chisel," added Percy.
"We are unexpectedly well off," said Mr. Pratt. "I think I will take the pistol; no doubt I am a little more used to that sort of thing than Armstrong. For the rest--come, my lads, Gradoff has finished. Stand ready!"
The position now was that before an entry could be forced, the door must be broken, and the barricade of table, boxes and paper overthrown. Mr. Pratt and the boys had just posted themselves beside the printing press, when there was a thundering crash at the door. The room seemed to quiver; some of the upper sheets of paper rose and fell as if a wind had blown upon them; and the vibration caused the printing press to give forth a low ringing note. But the stout oaken door had not yielded. There were shouts outside. A few moments passed; then the building shook under the impact of a second stroke.
"Heart of oak!" exclaimed Mr. Pratt, with satisfaction. "The door is oak; the ram, I think, is beech. Listen."
The tones of Gradoff's voice, soaring to an unnatural pitch, were heard chiding, urging, encouraging. A third time his men advanced, not with the cheery unisonal "Yo! ho!" of British tars, but each man raising his particular cry.
"More vim in that," remarked Armstrong, as the shattering blow resounded. "And look, sir."
About a foot below the upper hinge of the door, which was not covered by the table, a jagged streak of light shone through.