“Pull it off,” said the smith; “but wait a minute.”
As he spoke he made a great rummaging in one of his capacious pockets, and then producing a flat case bottle, which was capable, upon a moderate computation, of holding about a pint and a half, he uncorked it, and placing it to his lips, took a hearty draught of the contents.
“Now, by hell,” muttered Learmont, “cannot you go on without drink, and if so, why stop at such a juncture as this?”
“Go to the devil!” said Britten. “Here’s as choice a drop of brandy as ever was drunk, it’s no use offering you any. Now, I’m ready again; give me the cleaver.”
Britton took the cleaver, and by great pressure succeeded in inserting its blade partially between the door and the joint; then he gave it a sudden wrench, and with a sound that went to the heart of Learmont and filled him with alarm, a wooden bar, with which the door had been made fast, fell into the shop, being forced from its place by the wrench given by the cleaver.
“You will ruin all by your haste and want of caution,” muttered the squire; “some one is sure to be alarmed by that noise.”
“That’s just what I intend,” said Britton. “Whoever comes, we can ask them for a certainty where Gray is.”
“Such a scheme would be madness,” said Learmont. “Britton you will ruin all.”
“Come in,” said the smith, and grasping Learmont by the arm, he dragged him into the little shop, and closing the door after them as well as he could.
All was utter darkness, and for a moment or two, Learmont stood listening painfully to hear if the bar had created any alarm, or had passed off without notice. Then, to his horror, he heard a footstep in some room contiguous to where they were; a gleam of light shot from under a door, and just as Learmont with a deep groan strode towards the outer door to leave the place, believing that the house must be thoroughly alarmed, Britton, in a whisper said,—