The house where the boys presented determined front to the now swarming human spiders was apparently of a far better class than the tumble-down hovels in the row around the curve—a contrast so often presented in the big cities. It rose to a height of four stories, of brick with stone trimmings. But every shutter in the front was tightly closed, and if occupied there was no light nor sound to indicate the fact.
Hemmed in by the menacing circle, the boys mounted heel by heel, never turning their heads, the stone steps of the house, rising to the wide and solid oak door with a brass knocker projecting from its panels.
Here was the last stand against the spider crew—no way of retreat.
The ragged gang were muttering ugly threats in the mixed language of the slums, and knives were gripped in every hand. They were preparing for an overpowering rush upon their prey.
The boys knew that without other defense than their fists and their feet they had no show at all to stop an attack in force.
“Give the high note for help, Reddy.”
Henri had heard the little Frenchman’s “high note” in the hills of the Meuse, and it was a ringer.
Reddy set up a shriek in the still watches of the night that would have shamed a steam whistle.
“Secours! Secours!” (Help! Help!)
The immediate response was the cast of a knife, which whizzed close to the head of the shrieker and struck, shivering, in a door panel.