WOLF’S FORTRESS.—[Page 133].
The only safe line by which I could retire was in the direction of the mansion of Colonel Wimpleton. I crossed the brook farther down, and came to a rustic summer house, on the bank of the stream. It was built on a high foundation, to afford a prospect of the lake, and the only admission was through the door, which was reached by a long flight of steps. I immediately took possession of this structure, assured that I could defend the door, while its walls would protect me from the missiles of my assailants.
Waddie led his forces up to my fortress, and surveyed the situation. They attempted to drive me out with stones; but they fell harmless upon the building. The besiegers consulted together, and decided to make an assault on the works. I was entirely willing they should do so, for I could knock them over with the club as fast as they came up, having all the advantage of position. Ben Pinkerton volunteered to lead the forlorn hope, and advanced with considerable boldness to the attack. I gave him a gentle rap on the head as he appeared at the door, and he fell back, unable to reach me with his stick, as I stood so much higher than he.
“Better keep back,” I remonstrated with him. “If there are any broken heads, they will be yours.”
Dick Bayard then attempted to climb up the railing of the stairs, so as to be on a level with me; but I knocked his fingers with my stick, and he desisted. It was plain to them, after this trial, that a direct assault was not practicable, and they retired to the ground below. Another consultation followed in the ranks of the enemy; and by this time Waddie’s friends were quite as much interested in the affair as he was himself.
“I wish I had my revolver,” said the scion. “Hold on! I will go to the house and get it; you stay here, and don’t let him come down.”
“Oh, no! We don’t want any pistol,” protested Ben Pinkerton. “You mustn’t shoot him!”
“Why not? I would shoot him as quick as I would a cat. I wouldn’t kill him, of course; but I would make him come down, and give us fair play on the ground,” added Waddie.
Fair play! Seven of them, armed with clubs, against one! That was Waddie’s idea of fair play.
“No; we don’t want any pistols,” persisted Ben. “Some one might get hurt, and then we should be in a bad scrape.”