Van threw his arms around Joel. "Make quick work, Thomas," called Mr. King from his doorway. The pistol fell from Thomas's hand. "I've shot one of the boys. Och, murther!" he screamed.
And everybody rushing up supposed it was Van, who was writhing and screaming unintelligibly in the corner.
"Oh! I've killed him," they finally made out.
"Who—who? Oh, Van! who?"
"Joey," screamed Van, bending over a white heap on the floor. "Oh! make him get up. Oh! I've killed him."
The mask was hanging by one end from his white face, and his eyes protruded wildly. Up flew another figure adorned with a second black mask.
"No, no, it was I," and Percy rushed forward with an "Oh, Joel, Joel!"
Somebody lighted the gas, that flashed suddenly over the terrified group, and somebody else lifted the heap from the corner. And as they did so, Joel stirred and opened his eyes.
"Don't make such a fuss," he said crossly. One hand had gripped the sleeve of his night-dress, trying to hold it up in a little wad on the shoulder, the blood pouring down the arm. At sight of this, Van collapsed and slid to the floor.
"Don't frighten Mamsie," said Joel, his head drooping, despite his efforts to hold it up. "I'm all right; nothing but a scratch. Ugh! let me be, will you?" to Mr. Whitney and Jasper, who were trying to support him.