“Gone—got away—took leg-bail,” answered several voices at once, in the general tumult. “He’s left his hat, though!”
“Why ain’t you—why don’t somebody—ketch him!” gasped out Peternot, striding towards the door.
“Screw-driver! pair of shears! anything!” said Sellick, searching the table, “to force the lock!”
“The lock? the lock?” said the judge, like one just waking from sleep in a strong light.
“Yes, man!” said Sellick, unable to take an altogether serious view of even so serious a matter; “boy has gone for more milk; ’fraid he wouldn’t find us here when he got back, so he turned the key! Tongs!” And he sprang to the empty fireplace.
Peternot reached the door, and found his nephew, Mr. Byron Dinks, standing beside it in a comical attitude.
“Why don’t you open?” cried the squire, putting on his hat.
“Can’t open!” answered Byron.
“Stand away then!”
“Can’t stand away!”