Crash! Bang!
This time he dropped to the floor and lay still. The second shot smashed a pane in the upper window sash and knocked over a copper water jar that stood on the mantel, sending it rattling to the floor.
“That lad,” said Bill to himself, “is perched in a maple. Wild shooting, too—even in the dark. I wonder what in blazes he’s aiming at!”
He crept on all fours to the window and knelt before it, bringing his eyes level with the sill.
Crash! Crack! Bill winced. With the thunderclap came a ball of red fire. It struck a large northern maple, shot down the trunk and vanished into the turf below the spreading foliage. For an instant trees, shrubbery and lawn were illuminated with red light. Bill caught a glimpse of the flower garden beyond broad lawns, and a group of figures standing on the drive near the stone wall that separated the Bolton estate from the highway. He plainly saw a man drop from the big maple to the ground. Then as he sprang to his feet and leaned out of the window, the glare was gone and black night shut down on the world again.
“Reach down and give me a hand, Bill!”
The muffled voice came from just below.
“Who is it?” Bill spoke in the same cautious tone.
“It’s me. Charlie Evans. I’m hangin’ on by the ivy and this leader—but I can’t find anything above me to get a grip on.”
“Okay, boy. Let me get hold of your wrist—that’s it. Mind you don’t slip! The ivy has been cut away from the windows.”