“Stay together, lads. Don’t separate; you’ll get lost if you do,” he yelled.
Stoddard bade him keep still, and we soon had our hands full with a preliminary skirmish. Morgan’s line advanced warily. Davidson, the detective, seemed disgusted at Morgan’s tactics, openly abused the caretaker, and ran ahead of his column, revolver in hand, bearing down upon Larry, who held our center.
The Englishman’s haste was his undoing. The light fall of snow a few days before had gathered in the little hollows of the wood deceptively. The detective plunged into one of these and fell sprawling on all fours,—a calamity that caused his comrades to pause uneasily. Larry was upon his enemy in a flash, wrenched his pistol away and pulled the man to his feet.
“Ah, Davidson! There’s many a slip! Move, if you dare and I’ll plug you with your own gun.” And he stood behind the man, using him as a shield while Morgan and the rest of the army hung near the boat-house uncertainly.
“It’s the strategic intellect we’ve captured, General,” observed Larry to me. “You see the American invaders were depending on British brains.”
Morgan now acted on the hint we had furnished him and sent his men out as skirmishers. The loss of the detective had undoubtedly staggered the caretaker, and we were slowly retreating toward the house, Larry with one hand on the collar of his prisoner and the other grasping the revolver with which he poked the man frequently in the ribs. We slowly continued our retreat, fearing a rush, which would have disposed of us easily enough if Morgan’s company had shown more of a fighting spirit. Stoddard’s presence rather amazed them, I think, and I saw that the invaders kept away from his end of the line. We were far apart, stumbling over the snow-covered earth and calling to one another now and then that we might not become too widely separated. Davidson did not relish his capture by the man he had followed across the ocean, and he attempted once to roar a command to Morgan.
“Try it again,” I heard Larry admonish him, “try that once more, and The Sod, God bless it! will never feel the delicate imprint of your web-feet again.”
He turned the man about and rushed him toward the house, the revolver still serving as a prod. His speed gave heart to the wary invaders immediately behind him and two fellows urged and led by Morgan charged our line at a smart pace.
“Bolt for the front door,” I called to Larry, and Stoddard and I closed in after him to guard his retreat.
“They’re not shooting,” called Stoddard. “You may be sure they’ve had their orders to capture the house with as little row as possible.”