"Jurgens just showed up on the bank of the bayou," announced Dick, "and he looks as though he might be laying a course for the hut."
"We're double-crossed!" muttered Dashington. "The head knocker of the push will be next to us in half a minute, and that means a run to safety in the chug wagon with all hands and the sparks."
"No," said Matt, a thought darting through his mind. "There are enough of us here to capture Jurgens. He may find out about us, but he won't be able to get away with the information."
"Now you're making a noise like a winner," whispered Dashington exultantly. "That's the play. Around the door, lads, and grab him from all sides when he pushes in. Don't let him yell. If he manages to put up a roar, Whistler and Bangs will hear it and get curious. They've got rifles with them—and a bullet is a hard thing to dodge if it's sent right."
Jurgens was already close to the hut—so close that there was not the slightest doubt but that he was intending to investigate it. He was probably wondering what had become of the boys from the air ship, and was abroad with the intention of locating them, if possible.
Carl and Dick got behind the door, while Matt and Dashington pressed up close to the wall.
The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then, just as Jurgens put his foot across the threshold, Matt and Dashington sprang for him.
Dashington threw his arms about the man's throat and hung to him like a leech, while Matt seized a hand he was pushing toward his hip. In the struggle that followed, all three fell through the door and rolled off the step and onto the ground.