“Captain Webb, what prisoners have you taken, and why are they not gagged to prevent this hideous noise?”
Seemingly from beneath the ample porte-cochère, where this colloquy occurred, rose yells, groans and curses, and the sound of thumps, as of the impact of human bodies against remote subterranean doors.
“They’re trying to get loose, Miss Dangerfield, and they refuse to stay tied. The fiercest row is from the fellows we chucked into the coal bins.”
“It’s excellent anthracite, the best I can buy; they ought to be glad it isn’t soft coal,” replied Ardmore defensively. “Who are they?”
“They’re newspaper men, and they’re most terribly enraged,” answered Captain Webb. “We picked them up one at a time in different places on the estate. They say they’re down here looking for Governor Dangerfield.”
Collins grinned his delight.
“Oh, perfect hour!” he sang. “We’ll keep them until they promise to be good and print what we tell them. The little squeaky voice you hear occasionally—hark!—that’s Peck, of the Consolidated Press. He scooped me once on a lynching, and here is where I get even with him.”
“You have done well, Captain Webb,” said Jerry with dignity, “and I shall urge your promotion upon papa at the earliest moment possible. Are these newspaper gentlemen your only prisoners?”
“No; we gathered up two other parties, and one of them is in the servants’ laundry; the other, a middle-aged person, I lodged in the tower, where he can enjoy the scenery.”
He pointed to the tower, from which the flag of North Carolina waved gently in the morning breeze.