A deep baying howl of peculiar savagery followed.
The two lads paled. Here was a peril they had quite forgotten. The two dogs, as they well knew, were ferocious to a degree.
Sandy looked about him. The most dangerous weapon in sight was a blunt dinner knife. The baying of the dogs grew louder. The pattering of their feet could be heard on the inner stairs of the light-house.
"Shut the door!" cried Jack, thinking they could cut off the stairs in this way.
"There isn't one," cried Sandy.
"Seize 'em, boys! Tear 'em, boys!" came Barkentin's voice from without.
The next instant the dogs burst into the room with savage, gleaming eyes, bristling hackles and mouths gaping redly.
Some big game hunter has said that there is no more dangerous creature in existence than a ferocious dog, whether rendered so by training or disposition.
The two that rushed on the boys were Great Danes, crossed with some fiercer breed, powerful as panthers, and even more to be dreaded.
Sandy snatched up the nearest thing to him—a dinner-plate. He hurled it with full force at the first dog, as it leaped straight for his throat. Jack raised a chair and fought desperately with his antagonist. Outside came Barkentin's raucous voice: