“Oh, do! for my sake,” implored Nell.
A thundering rap on the front door resounded through the cottage; the sailor put his pride in his pocket, stooped low and darted in. Nelly shut the door, and leaned a baking-board against it.
“Let us in!” said a deep voice outside.
“Never!” replied Bessy, stamping her foot.
“You had better, dear,” replied the voice, in a conciliatory tone; “we won’t do you any harm.”
“Go along with you—brutes!” said the girl.
“We’ll have to force the door if you don’t open it, my dear.”
“You’d better not!” cried Bessy through the keyhole.
At the same time she applied her eye to that orifice, and instantly started back, for she saw the leader of the gang retire a few paces preparatory to making a rush. There was short time for action, nevertheless Bessy was quick enough to fling down a large stool in front of the door and place herself in an attitude of defence. Next moment the door flew open with a crash, and a sailor sprang in, cutlass in hand. As a matter of course he tripped over the stool, and fell prostrate at Bessy’s feet, and the man who followed received such a well-delivered blow from the crutch that he fell on the top of his comrade. While the heroine was in the act of receiving the third she felt both her ankles seized by the man who had fallen first. A piercing yell followed. In attempting to free herself she staggered back and fell, the crutch was wrenched from her grasp, and the whole gang poured over her into the kitchen, where they were met by their comrades, who had just burst in the back door.
“Search close,” cried one of these; “there’s a big fellow in the house; we saw him run into it.”