“We have him safely,” said Mark Harwood in tones of triumph. “Escape is impossible now; get the muskets, Fannin,” to one of the others, “we’ll soon bring him to his knees.”
The man shot quickly down the hall and out at the front door. Tom’s laugh rang in the ears of the seven who remained, for he was thinking of the disappointment that was in store for them.
“He must be mad,” growled Clarage at this. “No sane person would laugh at the prospect of certain death.”
“Right,” said Tom. “You are always right, except when you imagine you can handle a sword.”
Once more his laugh rang out; and before he had done, the man sent for the firearms came racing back.
“The rifles are gone,” he announced.
“Gone!” they stared at him in consternation. “What do you mean, Fannin?”
“Just what I say,” returned the Tory. “The rifles have been carried off.”
“I have taken good care of that,” cried the lad on the staircase. “Your rifles, gentlemen, are where you will not be able to find them in a hurry. If you want to take me it must be hand to hand.”
“Then hand to hand it shall be,” roared Clarage, his face purple with passion. “Shall it be said,” he cried, turning to his companions, “that one rebel boy held back and defied eight loyal subjects of the king?”