Bill pulled, caught Charlie beneath his shoulders and lifted him over the sill.
“Get out of their line of fire,” he ordered.
As quickly as possible he closed both windows and pulled down the green shades. A moment later he found the wall-switch and flooded the room with light. Charlie, a round-faced, red-headed boy of twelve, still sat on the floor. He was soaked to the skin and breathing heavily.
Bill gave him one look and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he brought a glass of water with him. Charlie grabbed the tumbler and drained it in a few gulps.
“That’s the berries!” he wheezed. “Got another?”
“Soon—too much in a hurry will make you sick. Are you hurt? I mean, did those guys wing you? I take it that you were the target they aimed at.”
“I sure was, Bill, but they’re rotten shots. Gee, I’ve had a time of it, I tell you. Can’t I have another drink now? I’ve been running ever since they punctured the tires and I’m dry as an empty well.”
“All right, but take your time drinking it.”
Bill followed Charlie into the bathroom. “You may be dry inside, but those clothes of yours are soaking wet. Get out of them and take a good rub down. And put on that bathrobe on the door. If I’m not in the bedroom when you’re through, wait for me there—I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
He went into the bedroom, and from there into the hall. A night light was burning at the foot of the staircase. Thunder still rumbled in the distance but the storm was passing over. Bill ran lightly down to the lower floor. For a second he hesitated, then went into the library on his right and shut the door behind him.