"Yes," said Mr. Pratt, coolly. "They have cracked the shell. The hinges will give. In five or six minutes they will be scrambling over our barricade. I find I have only four cartridges; they must be reserved for the critical moment. Percy, run upstairs and bring down the hammer and chisel--yes, and the chain. I have no objection whatever to turning the enemy's weapons against him."
While Percy was absent, the assailants, who had evidently marked the damage already done, again rammed the door, on the same side. There was a flood of light through a gap nearly a foot square; splinters of timber across the upturned end of the table fell at Armstrong's feet. At the next blow the door split from top to bottom, and the whole of the upper part fell inwards. Apparently the enemy guessed that some attempt at a barricade had been made, for their next stroke was delivered lower down, with such force that it broke through the door, drove the table in, and sent some of the piled-up boxes toppling.
"Won't you now try a shot, sir?" said Armstrong.
"They have drawn back; next time," replied Mr. Pratt. "Stand clear."
Once more the battering-ram was rushed forward. It could now be seen that the shorter men held the fore part; the taller men were behind. Mr. Pratt raised his arm, but before he could take deliberate aim the forceful stroke carried the remnants of the door inwards, and hurled the shattered table, broken boxes, and flying sheets of paper in one indistinguishable mass upon the printing press, which gave way and fell with a mighty crash upon the floor. Mr. Pratt barely escaped being overthrown with it. He staggered backward, and the pistol was knocked from his hand. The small figure of the Italian chauffeur leapt into the breach, and began to clamber over the wreckage. Armstrong darted forward, and, before the man had time to swing round, Armstrong's cudgel descended with a resounding crack upon his skull, and he fell sprawling among the litter.
"HE STAGGERED BACKWARD, AND THE PISTOL WAS KNOCKED FROM HIS HAND."
But Maximilien Rod was at his heels. Stumbling over him, the cook plunged head foremost among the boxes, only his fall saving him from Armstrong's club. Immediately behind him dashed the tall Pole. Having no time to swing his cudgel, Armstrong jabbed at him, and catching him under the chin sent him reeling against the doorpost. Meanwhile Mr. Pratt had disengaged himself from the obstructing press and regained his pistol, just as Rush and his big comrade of the island forged through the opening. The Pole had sprung to his feet with catlike agility. A revolver cracked. Mr. Pratt recoiled, rapidly changed his pistol from the right hand to the left, and fired.
There was a sudden lull. Rush and the Finn had slipped back out of harm's way. Through the smoke Armstrong saw two men on the floor--the chauffeur whom he had felled, and the Pole, victim to Mr. Pratt's pistol.
"Back to the stairs!" murmured the old gentleman. He tottered.