“Yo’ all come an’ sit on hyah too, Marse Rob,” urged Jumbo. “Ah reckon den dey kain’t git dat door open till we am willing dat dey should conmerge inter terrier firmer.”
Rob guessed at once what had happened. The moonshiners, following the attack of the revenue officers, had realized that continued resistance would be useless. They had, therefore, made their escape by the secret passage, led into by the swinging hearthstone. Its outlet evidently being by the trap door on which they were then stationed. But first, with wicked craft, they had ignited their whole stock of spirituous liquors, hoping in the consequent explosion, that the revenue men would perish. This much seemed clear. Indeed, it was confirmed afterward, and—but we are anticipating.
The Boy Scout had just reached these conclusions when a sudden stir in the brush behind him made him look up. Two men stood there, the light of the conflagration showing every detail of their figures and countenances plainly. They were regarding the group on the top of the trap-door with peculiar interest.
Rob started up toward them but was abruptly checked as two rifles were jerked to two shoulders, and aimed straight at him.
“Don’t move a step!” warned one of the men, “I guess we want you.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
JUMBO EARNS $500.00—AND LOSES IT.
“Guess you do want us, but not exactly in the same sense as you mean,” retorted Rob with a chuckle.
“What do you mean, boy?” asked one of the men sharply, as several others of the revenue officers—as Rob had guessed them to be—came up.
“I mean that we’ve got the whole gang you were after bottled up in a tunnel under this trap door,” rejoined Rob breezily.
“Yas sah, Misto Arm-ob-de-Law,” grinned Jumbo, “ah reckin no coon up a tree was eber moh completely obfusticated dan dose same chill’uns.”