When a little pile of the shavings were made Sprowl piled over them some splinters of wood that lay beside the kitchen-stove, and then applied the lighted candle to the heap. It instantly ignited, the tiny blaze creeping along, thrusting out its forked tongue like a serpent; at which the incendiary gave a chuckle of delight, and rising, dropped a chair over the fire.
He next grasped the table, with the same intention, but Poynter had seen enough, and drawing himself up by the arms, he dropped lightly through the window—the noise made by Sprowl in dragging the table effectually drowning his footsteps. One stride, and the large, muscular right hand of Clay Poynter tightly clasped the villain by the neck, compressing it as if in a vice.
Jack Fyffe was in no wise behindhand, but speedily followed his leader through the open window, thinking that better than to demolish the door, especially as there was no particularly urgent call for haste; and with a few shoves of his huge foot, kicked the brands into the capacious fireplace, it having done no damage, save slightly scorching the chairs and floor.
"It may be fun to you, square, da'say 'tis, but ef you 'xpects to git any 'fessions outen thet critter, you'd do well to let up a little," admonished Jack, as he bent forward to peer into the face of the prisoner.
And there was ample foundation for his warning, for in his rage at the cowardly miscreant's action, Poynter threw the whole power of his arm into the grasp, and Sprowl was already senseless. His eyes were widely protruding, and his open mouth and lolling tongue, together with his rapidly-blackening, distorted features, rendered him a horrible, repulsive sight.
"You're right, Jack," said Poynter, as he relaxed his grip and suffered Sprowl to drop upon the floor, then bending over him, he poured a little brandy down his throat, although Jack grumbled at the sacrilege.
In a few moments Sprowl had recovered sufficiently to sit up, thoroughly bewildered at the sudden reverse he had experienced. But his captors did not give him time to ponder over it, or ask questions, as it was growing late, and for obvious reasons they did not care to remain longer than was absolutely necessary in the neighborhood.
So, after securely binding the incendiary's hands behind his back, the two men, highly elated at their complete success, led the way to where the horses were hitched.
"You're the lightest, Jack," said Poynter; "better take him up behind you on the horse."
"Durn the thief!" growled Fyffe, "let 'im tramp it; 't'll do him good."