"'Murder! he's drawing a pistol!' roared Fred in terror; and turning hastily to fly, he ran against me in the doorway, and we both fell sprawling upon the floor.
"'Robbers! fire!' shrieked Fred. 'Here's another one!' and darting into an opposite room, he crawled under the bed there.
"'Move another inch and I'll fire!' cried Al, pointing the musket at the man's breast.
"Och!—murther! Masther Al, don't be afther a-shootin' me!' came a familiar voice in broad Hibernian accents.
"It was Pat, the doctor's man.
"'What! is that you, Pat?' exclaimed Al, lowering the weapon.
"'Sorra the day for me an' it wur,' said the Irishman, as he carefully deposited on the floor the pistol Fred had seen him draw, which was simply a small, flat bottle. He then leisurely lifted his other ponderous foot over the window-sill, shook himself, as if to ascertain whether he had a whole skin, and shut the window. Then he picked up the bottle, and carefully replaced it in his coat pocket.
"Meanwhile, Al had been quietly laughing, and I was still on the floor laughing and rubbing the bruises on my legs, which had been caused by Fred's collision.
"'What's the meaning of this?' whispered Al. 'How is it, Pat, that you come into the house in this way instead of by the door?"
"'Well, you see,' said Pat, 'I just wint the night to say me cousin, who is a-workin' at the Smit's, an' not moindin' to disturb the docther an' his wife, sure didn't I put the long laddher forninst the windew, intindin' to tak out that new pane of glass that was raycintly tacked in, an' inter in as nate an' quiet as ye plaze: but the lad was scared a bit. Where is he?'