“You deaf?” came the funereal query. “Who’s in there?”
Nickie was gulping audibly, but he could not speak. Skippy was forced to do something about it though every instinct within him rebelled against opening that door to Devlin. He pressed Nickie’s hand, then released it and sat up straight.
“Huh? Who—who’s there?” he asked, feigning sleepiness.
“Me—Barker! Who’d you think?” was the harsh reply. Then: “What’s holding this door—open it!”
Skippy stepped out of the bed on feet of ice. “A m-m-minute,” he said, in a quivering voice. “J-J-just a-a minute.”
Nickie seemed urged into action too. He jumped out and sprang to Skippy’s side. “No matter what, kid,” he gasped quickly, “you’n me are pals—see? It’s him or us n’ we’ll stick! You do the talkin’ an’ I’ll watch his mitts. He’s a big guy but there’s two against one!”
“Yes,” breathed Skippy, and together they pulled the bed away from the panel. As the door flew open, Devlin stood partly in the shadow, his face black with wrath. His eyes, so light and staring, seemed now to be on the verge of popping out of his long, narrow head, and his beetle brows were all but obscured by the straggling wisps of his unkempt hair.
“What’s the big idea, eh?” he demanded, glaring at the boys and then at the bed.
His voice sounded almost like a clap of thunder and all Skippy could do was to look at the man’s enormous feet. He had never noticed them before and they fascinated him.
“Have you lost your voices, eh?” Devlin roared. “Answer me!” There was no mistaking his anger.