The Merry Anne 37
"Don't get chicken-hearted, Dick." He turned to the farmer and asked
again, "Will you open this door?"
There was no reply.
Without another word Beveridge threw himself against it; but it was
stoutly built and did not yield. All three heard a gasp of fright from
within.
"Hold on, Bill," Smiley exclaimed. "No use breaking your collar-bone.
I 'll get a rail."
He said this with the idea of bullying either the farmer or the persons
within the room into opening the door, but Van Deelen remained sullen
and motionless. Beveridge, however, caught up the idea; and with a "Wait
here, Dick," he ran down the stairs. In entering the house they had
closed the door after them, and now Beveridge had to stop and fumble a
moment with the lock.
But it was only a moment, and pulling it open he plunged out.
A breathless man with his hat pulled down was starting up the steps.
Beveridge stopped short; so did the breathless man. For an instant they
stood motionless, one staring down from the top step, the other staring
up from the bottom. Then Beveridge saw, in the shadow of the hat-brim,
a black mustache; and at the same instant the owner of the mustache
recognized the figure above him.
Not for worlds would Beveridge have called out. He had McGlory fairly in
his hands,--the moment he had been hoping for, almost praying for,
had come,--and he could never have resisted the desire to take him
singlehanded. McGlory was heavy, muscular, desperate--these were merely
additional reasons. Beveridge had known little but plodding work for
weeks and months--here was where the glory came in. And glory was
what he craved--a line in the papers, the envy of his associates, the
approbation of his superiors.
And so, when he saw McGlory before him in the flesh, silently tugging
at something in his hip pocket, he not only sprang down on him as a
mountain lion might leap on its prey,--not only this, but he took pains,
even in this whirling moment, to make no noise in the take-off. McGlory
got the revolver out, but he was a fifth of a second too late. Just as
he swung it around, the special agent landed on him, caught his wrist,
gripped him around the neck with his other arm, and bore him down in the
sand of the dooryard. Neither made a sound, save for occasional grunting
and heavy breathing. They rolled over and over, Beveridge now on top,
now McGlory. McGlory was hard as steel; Beveridge was lithe and quick.
If McGlory gripped him so tight around the body that it seemed only
a question of seconds before his ribs must go, one after another,
Beveridge never slackened his hold of that bull-like neck. McGlory
struggled to turn the revolver toward Beveridge; but Beveridge held to
his wrist and bent it back--back--until any other man must have dropped
the weapon for the sheer pain of it.
The door had swung to behind Beveridge as he went out; the horse was
thrashing in the barn; and Dick, leaning against the closed door of
Mrs. van Deelen's bedroom, looking at the farmer, heard nothing of the
struggle that was going on outside. He was wondering what interest
this farmer could have in a gang of smugglers. He decided to ask. This
business of standing opposite him and exchanging the glances of two
hostile dogs was not a pleasant experience for a man of Dick's sociable
humor.
"I've been wondering, Van Deelen, what you're acting this way for."
A suspicious glance was all this remark drew out.
"I don't believe you're mixed up with that crew, and I don't see how
you can be interested in covering their tracks. Are you sure you aren't
taking the wrong tack?"
"I ain't covering anybody's tracks. You don't know what you're talking
about."
"Can't you see that we don't enjoy breaking into people's houses and
prying around in bedrooms?"
"What do you do it for then?"
"What do we do it for! Why, McGlory and his gang are Smugglers--they're
a bad lot. And this man with me is a government officer."
"That ain't telling why you come _here_."
"Now, Van Deelen, what's the use of keeping up that bluff? It doesn't
fool anybody. We know all about their coming here. We've tracked them
this far. This officer will never leave the house until he has opened
this door and seen who you've got in here. I can promise you he 'll act
like a gentleman. Now don't you think it would be a good deal better
just to open up and be done with it?"
Having no reasonable answer to this, Van Deelen fell back into his
sullen silence.
"Wonder what's taking him so long," Dick observed. "Would he have to go
far for a rail?"
There was no answer.
Altogether, it was not a cheerful situation. Dick, who had borne up
capitally so far, now experienced a sinking of spirits. He looked first
at the glum figure before him, then at the dingy walls and ceiling, then
down into the shadows of the stairway. Seeing nothing that could prop
his spirits, he fell to humming "Baby Mine."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he broke out, interrupting himself; "maybe I'm
disturbing your wife?"
There was no answer.
"You're a hilarious old bird," said Dick.
No answer--nothing but that glum Dutch face.
"Oh, well--go to thunder!"
Not even a gleam of anger disturbed those Dutch eyes. Dick, his feeble
struggle over, succumbed to the gloom and was silent. And such silence
as it was! The horse, over in the barn, had ceased kicking about; the
air was still. The creakings of the old house sounded like the tread of
feet. The loud breathing of the person within the closed room could be
distinctly heard.
There was a shot outside--then silence--two more shots--again the
silence. It is curious how a revolver shot, in the stillness of the
night, can be at once startling and insignificant. Curious, because it
is not very loud--no deafening report--no reverberation--but merely a
dead _thud_, as if the sound were smothered in a blanket. And yet it
was loud enough to raise goose-flesh all over Dick's body and send the
creepy feeling that we all know through the roots of his hair, as if a
thousand ants had suddenly sprung into being there. At the first report
he stiffened up; the second and third met his ears halfway down the
stairs. Van Deelen, frightened, bewildered, ran down close after him.
Dick paused at the foot of the steps and looked around. In an instant
he made out the familiar figure of Beveridge a dozen yards away. The
special agent was standing over a prostrate man, one hand gripping a
revolver, the other fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sweat
was glistening on his face, his collar and tie hung down his breast, his
coat was torn clear across the back.
Dick joined him, and knelt over the man on the ground.
"We've wasted time enough on him," said Beveridge, catching his breath.
"Who--oh, it's McGlory! Is--is he--"
"Shouldn't wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?"
They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence.
"Hold on," said Dick. "There's that cord-wood we used on the front
door."
"That will do."
So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper
came running up, his shoe in his hand. "I didn't know you was going
to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge.
I 'most cut my foot to pieces running up here."
"Come along, Dick," said Beveridge.
"Good Lord!" gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special
agent. "What they been doing to you?"
But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. "Stay here at the steps,
Harper, and if any more come up, don't let 'em get away from you." With
the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the
stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm.
"Well, what do you want?"
"You needn't use that."
"You 'll let me in?"
"Yes."
Beveridge promptly set down his burden on the stairs, and stood aside to
let the farmer take the lead.
Van Deelen tapped at the door, and softly, called, "Saskia!"
"What is it?"
"You have to open the door and let this gentleman in."
"Mercy, no!"
"But you have to!"
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