The night was dark; a drizzling rain had come on, and the part where they were was not too well lighted. The small band, about to issue from the gates of the works, would pass this waste land within some fifteen yards of them. Poole had been a famous marksman in his day, and felt sure of his aim. John Allen knelt on his right, one Denton on his left, and one on either side beyond: five in all.
Five o'clock struck. Almost simultaneously the bell at the works was heard, giving warning that it was time for the men to go to tea. Three or four sharp, quick strokes: nothing more.
"That's Green, I'll swear," cried Denton, alluding to the ringer. "I didn't know he was back again: his rheumatics must be better."
"Hush--sh--sh!" was all Denton received in answer. And a death-like silence ensued. Poole broke it.
"Where the devil are they? Why don't they come?"
Ay, why did they not come? Simply because there had been scarcely sufficient time for them to do so. But every moment, to these would-be murderers, kneeling there, seemed like a long-drawn-out period.
"Here they are," whispered Denton.
It was so. The men were coming out at the gate, about twenty of them; two and two; the policemen to-night heading the string. Sometimes the officers were behind, at other times at the side of the men. Poole rose cautiously and prepared to take aim. They were crossing from the gates, and presently would pass the hedge. This was the second night the men had thus lain in ambush. The previous night they had waited in like manner; but Ralley happened to be then on the other side his companion in the march, and so for the time was saved.
Allen stretched up his head. His sight was keen as a sailor's.
"Which side's he on, Jack?" whispered Poole. "I don't see him yet."