"
"Tell him," said the voice in a louder tone (and I tingled as I
recognized it)--"tell him that if he keeps us waiting another
minute we will break the gate down."
I laughed inwardly at this foolish threat. The gate was a stout
barrier, that would do more damage than it could receive from any
attempt of theirs.
"Bring out the key, rascal," roared the postilion again.
"An' you please, measter," says I, appearing in the doorway, "I be
afeared the key bin lost."
Then the man on the box scrambled down, and ran into the cottage.
With him I hunted in every nook and corner of the room, and there
being no sign of the key we went out, and to the other side of the
coach, and there I heard the coach door open, and the voice cried:
"Hold the leader, Jabez; and you, Tom, go to the wheelers' heads.
I'll blow in the cursed lock with my pistol."
Slipping back so that I might not be seen, I peeped through the
window and saw Cyrus Vetch, pistol in hand, moving towards the
gate. Here I was in a wretched quandary. I glanced anxiously up the
road: there was never a sign of Mr. Allardyce or any other pursuer.
To blow in the lock would be the work of a second: then nothing I
could do would prevent the coach from passing through and getting
clean away.
I was ready to despair when a possible means of checkmate flashed
into my mind. Vetch was within a yard of the gate; his two men were
at the horses' heads, to hold them when the report of the pistol
came; their eyes were fixed on their master.
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