He was about to remove the chest of drawers when he heard the unmistakable voice of Silas Maslin mingled with the shriller tones of Mrs. Maslin, on the landing approaching his door.
His retreat by the stairway was evidently cut off.
What was he to do?
The door of his room was pushed in an inch or two, as far as the obstruction would permit.
“Open the door, you young villain!” exclaimed the voice of Silas Maslin, whose temper had by no means been improved by the injury he had received.
“Push the door in, Silas,” said his wife. “There ain’t no lock to it.”
“He’s got somethin’ against it,” replied her husband, impatiently.
“Mebbe it’s the chest of drawers or the bed.”
“It ain’t the bed,” said the storekeeper, and he flung himself suddenly against the panel with a force sufficient to push the obstruction back a foot at least.
Through this opening he thrust his head and saw Dick Armstrong beating a hasty retreat by way of the window.