THE PILOT'S GRIP
The situation was one of extreme danger—a madman with a Winchester rifle. Something must be done and quickly. But what? It would be death to anyone appearing at the door.
“I'll speak; you keep your eyes on him,” said The Duke.
“Hello, Bruce! What's the row?” shouted The Duke.
Instantly the singing stopped. A look of cunning delight came over his face as, without a word, he got his rifle ready pointed at the door.
“Come in!” he yelled, after waiting for some moments. “Come in! You're the biggest of all the devils. Come on, I'll send you down where you belong. Come, what's keeping you?”
Over the rifle-barrel his eyes gleamed with frenzied delight. We consulted as to a plan.
“I don't relish a bullet much,” I said.
“There are pleasanter things,” responded The Duke, “and he is a fairly good shot.”
Meantime the singing had started again, and, looking through the chink, I saw that Bruce had got his eye on the stovepipe again. While I was looking The Pilot slipped away from us toward the door.