Full as his mind was of burglars, he fancied that it was something a great deal more deadly that had struck him.
“Oh, Abigail! I’m shot through the brain!” he moaned in anguish, as he poked in his head and fell back upon the floor.
“What do you mean, Joe?” asked his wife, in alarm, as she hastened to her prostrate husband, whose hand was pressed convulsively upon the injured organ, which, naturally ached badly with the force of the blow.
“I’m a dead man!” moaned Mr. Tucker; “and it’s all your fault. You made me go to the window.”
“I don’t believe you’re shot at all! I didn’t hear any report,” said Mrs. Tucker. “Let me see your face.”
Mr. Tucker withdrew his hand mournfully.
“You’ve only been struck with a rock or something,” said she, after a careful examination.
“It’s bleeding!” groaned Joe, seeing a dark stain on his night-dress.
“Suppose it is—it won’t kill you. I’ll look out myself.”
But she saw nothing. Philip and Frank had immediately taken to flight, and vanished in the darkness.