“There are two of them!” gasped Mrs. Graham, in an interval of screaming. The door was opened slightly. “Push up the bedstead, Clara!” and the two women pushed the heavy piece of furniture against the door. The movement was so sudden that the door closed upon the intruder’s fingers. There was a howl of pain.
“Scream!” commanded Mrs. Graham, as Clara caught her by the arm. The girl did not at once obey.
“Oh, mother,” she cried, “what do you suppose they’ve done to John—I mean Dr. Pennington?”
“Let me in,” cried a voice in the hall. “Let me in.” The two women screamed again. The door was pushed open and a man’s head and shoulder thrust in. In desperation, Mrs. Graham picked up the water-pitcher. Rushing towards the man, she threw it at him. It struck the wall and broke, near enough to him to drench him.
“Hold on, I say!” he cried. “Mother, what are you doing? Are you hurt? Have those scoundrels hurt you?”
“Phil!” cried Mrs. Graham and Clara at once. “Phil! Why, what are you doing here? How did you come?” And they rushed upon him, dragging him through the narrow opening and embracing him rapturously.
“What are you doing here?” asked Mrs. Graham again, as she released him. He could not answer at once, but after Clara had let him go, he answered,—
“Well, father at first forgot all about the burglars. We were at the library, working away like beaver lawyers, when he suddenly thought of ‘em. He jumped up and said we must come right home, because you’d be scared out of your wits.” Here he kissed his mother again. “So we bundled up the papers, and, as we were too late for the ten o’clock train, we came up on the other road, and walked across. We brought Fred with us, too.”
“Fred Austin?” asked Mrs. Graham. Phil nodded, and went on: