Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the floor.
"That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one now with less trouble."
"Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door.
Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked out at the besieging force.
"Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back into the house."
"My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon is the master of the house. He will let me in."
"Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear you," said Grit.
"Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath.
He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get in, I'll mash you!"