y
that he was unable to rise and extricate himself.

Not exactly comprehending what was going on, but thinking that the time
for them to act had come, the four boys to whom Si had given the duty
of making the rush with the log to break down the door, came bolting up,
shouting to their comrades:

"Open out, there, for us."

[Illustration: "THE PRISONERS HAD TOO MUCH SOLICITUDE ABOUT THEIR
GARMENTS TO THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE." 185]

Their battering-ram cleaned off the rest of those still pommeling
Shorty, and drove back those who were swarming in the door.

Shorty sprang up and gave a rib-breaking kick to the prostrate Eph
Glick.

The crowd inside at first recoiled at the sight of the soldiers, but,
frightened for his own safety, Billings shouted, as he sheltered himself
behind the altar:

"Don't give way, men. There's only a few o' them. Draw your revolvers
and shoot down the scum. Drive 'em away."

A score of shots were fired in obedience, but Si, making his voice ring
above the noise, called out:

"Stop that firing, or I'll kill every man in the house. If there's
another shot fired we'll open on you and keep it up till you're every
one dead. Surrender at once!"

"Go at 'em with the bayonet, Si," yelled Shorty. "I'm goin' around to
ketch old Billings. He's in there, and'll try to sneak out the back
way."

As Shorty ran around the corner he came face-to-face with a stalwart
Irishman, one of the pluckiest of the squad brought from Jeffersonville.
His face was drawn and white with fright, and he fumbled at his beads.

"O, Corpril," he said, with chattering teeth, "Oi've jist sane the very
divil himself, so Oi have. Oi started to run up t' the house whin the
ruction begun, when suddintly the ground opened up at me very fate, an'
out kim a ghost, tin fate hoigh, wid oyes av foire, and brathing flames,
an' he shtarted for me, an' oi--"

"What damned nonsense is this, O'Brien?" asked Shorty angrily. "Are you
drunk, or jest naturally addled? Come along with me and we'll--"

"Not for a thousand loives," groaned the Irishman. "Howly saints, fwhat
is old Clootie after me for? Is it for atin' that little taste o' ham
last Friday? Holy Mary, save me; there he is again!"

"Where, you flannel-mouthed Mick?" asked Shorty savagely. "Where do you
see the devil?"

"There! There! That white thing. Don't you say it yersilf?" groaned the
Irishman, dropping on his knees, and calling on all the saints.

"That white