“And I’ll stake mine,” said Snell.
“Well, hurry up and get that lock off, and we’ll soon see,” said the leader.
Snell inserted the bayonet and gave a wrench. Don was thinking, not of the powder, but of the bales of cloth at the foot of the stairs. In a few minutes they would find them, and then things would go hard with him and his aunt. Well, he had done his best, but what wouldn’t he have done to keep them out of the cellar altogether!
“Blasted lock!” muttered Snell and gave another fierce wrench; there was a sharp crack, and his bayonet was in two pieces.
Infuriated, the Redcoat hacked away with the short end that was in his hand, and in a few moments the lock clattered to the floor. He had opened the door and was about to go down when a sharp command behind him made him turn as if he had seen a ghost.
“Snell, you hound, what does this mean!” Harry Hawkins, gun in hand, crossed the threshold; he had just returned from the drill grounds.
Snell’s face had gone suddenly white, and he only stood and looked.
“It means,” said the leader, “that we’re about to get some ammunition that these rebels have hidden in the cellar.”
“It’s not true, sir!” cried Don, turning to Hawkins. “It’s not true. There is no ammunition in the cellar—not a speck!”
Hawkins looked steadily at Aunt Martha. “That is true, I suppose?” he inquired.