feet disappeared; the other pair remained. This fellow on
the outside would prevent the police from surprising the two within.
Should Jerry tackle the watching burglar now or wait?

"I wonder how many more of them there are?" thought Jerry, as he took
firm hold of his club, and eyed the waiting feet, scarcely daring to
breathe.

In the meantime, the police stationed back and front had seen the two
men arrive and one enter; but, not having reached the convent gate early
enough, they did not know that a third man was within. They kept guard
and thought they had a sure thing of nabbing the burglars as they
emerged with their spoils.

Then suddenly the stillness of the hour was broken by the loud report
of a pistol not half a square away. All the policemen rushed in the
direction of the sound, and saw a man fleeing in the distance. Two of
them pursued him, blowing their whistles as they ran. The other two
stopped to argue whether they had better help their comrades or return
to their former hiding-place.

But while they talked an exciting scene had occurred. As soon as the
shot was fired the thief on the outside made a break for the gate. Jerry
started after him, but the rogue jumped the fence, and ran off, so, not
to waste time in a fruitless chase, the crooked little old man turned
back to find himself confronted by two more fugitives. For the shot on
the outside was a prearranged warning of danger, and as soon as the
burglars on the inside heard it, they rushed from the house with their
booty.

They, too, were about to jump the fence when Jerry, wondering what the
police were doing, and desperate at the idea of all three of the
rascals eluding them, sprang at them brandishing his club and yelling
like a dozen Comanche Indians.

At the same time Mr. Morton appeared at the door with a shot-gun, and
the burglars, thinking they had twenty foes instead of two, began a
fight for life.

Mr. Morton stood framed in the doorway with a bright light behind him.
The man nearest Jerry, the same strapping fellow who had entered in the
afternoon, raised his arm, and there was a flash of metal as he took
steady aim at Mr. Morton's breast. Another instant, and ten little
children would have been fatherless; but a resounding whack from a
hickory stick sent a shot into the air, and the hand that held the
pistol dropped, nerveless. The would-be murderer tottered a few steps,
then fell in a heap on the grass.

The remaining burgla