The Vicar caught the idea before the Lieutenant, and with characteristic impatience, was through the second hole before the third member of the band had thrown down his first armful. Light as a cat she dropped, scrambled out of the manger, and as a step sounded in the outer barn, dragged the Lieutenant through in an agony of apprehension, stumbled across the great heap of stable refuse, and crouched, palpitating, behind the cow-house door.
The Head Captain, whom crises calmed and immediate danger heartened, himself crept back into the stable to gather from the sound of the steps the direction taken by the intruder.
He was talking to the horse.
“Want some dinner? I’ll bet you do. Stealing hay, was you? That’ll never do.”
It was enough. Soon he would go upstairs to count over the treasures—who would ever have supposed that this simple-looking stableman had known for years of such a trove?—and then woe to the Pirates!
“Come on, you! Run for your life!” he shot at them, and they tore across the yard, over a back fence, and across a vacant lot, panting, stumbling, muttering to each other, the Vicar crying with excitement. The Lieutenant caught his foot in his sash and fell miserably, mistaking them for arms of the law, as they loyally turned back to pick him up, and fighting them with feeble punches. They dragged him through a hedge and took refuge in an old tool-house.
Slowly they got back breath. The delicious horror of pursuit was lifted from them. It appeared that they were safe.
“You goin’ home, now?” said the Lieutenant huskily.
Home? Home? Was the fellow mad? The Head Captain vouchsafed no answer.
“Forward! March!”