"What!" shrieked Mrs. Hopkins. "You are willing they should shoot me?"
"They wouldn't shoot a woman," said the deacon.
But his wife was not appeased.
Just then the unlucky Sam trod on the tail of the cat, who was quietly asleep on the hearth. With the instinct of self-defence, she scratched his leg, which was undefended by the customary clothing, and our hero, who did not feel at all heroic in the dark, not knowing what had got hold of him, roared with pain and fright.
"This is terrible!" gasped the deacon. "Martha, is the door locked?"
"No."
"Then I'll get up and lock it. O Lord, what will become of us?"
Sam was now ascending the stairs, and, though he tried to walk softly, the stairs creaked beneath his weight.
"They're comin' upstairs," exclaimed Mrs. Hopkins. "Lock the door quick, deacon, or we shall be murdered in our bed."
The deacon reached the door in less time than he would have accomplished the same feat in the daytime, and hurriedly locked it.