Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 55
At the thought of these reinforcements Colin felt a slight encouragement. He quickened his pace as he turned in the direction of the shieling. Soon he was panting and scrambling among the heather of the watershed. But at the back of his mind there was the dreadful thought that perhaps already he was too late. The callousness with which the survivors of the landing-party had abandoned their friends to their fate without an effort to help or even a sign of interest, had thrown a flood-light on the character of the Nipasgal company. Only sub-human beasts could have behaved like that. And Jean was in their hands now.
As he topped the rise Colin saw a light burning in the shieling. At least his detour had not been in vain. Northfleet must be there. He gathered himself together and raced down the farther slope, heedless of risks on the broken ground. Once, losing his foothold, he fell headlong and rose with blood oozing from his cheek. Now he was on the grassy strip between heather and sea, with clear going before him. He gathered himself together for the last lap.
A few seconds later, panting, dishevelled, blood-stained, and with fear for Jean’s safety tearing at his heart, he beat frantically on the locked door of the shieling.
CHAPTER XIV
THE DOG
A CHAIR was roughly pushed back within the shieling, the key grated in the lock, and Northfleet appeared, propping the half-open door against the wind with his foot.
“What’s up?” he demanded curtly, as he caught sight of Colin’s face.
Colin was in no condition to give a coherent account of his experiences.
“Gang of gunmen landed on Ruff a,” he gasped disjointedly. “Up at Wester Voe now. Shot the detective. Got Jean and Hazel in their hands; they were alone in the house. Jean screamed; I heard her. Lord knows what’s happening up there. Wenlock wouldn’t let me risk going. We need guns for the job. It’s the Nipasgal lot, I think: the gang in the cipher message.”
At the sight of Northfleet’s amazed expression, one of Colin’s shreds of hope vanished. It was plain as print that Northfleet knew nothing about the raid. He had no connection with Nipasgal.
“Have you a pistol?” Colin demanded, turning to the other alternative in his mind.
Northfleet motioned him to enter; slipped on a coat; went to a drawer and pulled out an automatic pistol which he dropped into one pocket; loaded the other with several boxes of cartridges, and some loose ammunition.
“We must go up to Heather Lodge and get them to help,” Colin continued breathlessly.
“Right!” said Northfleet, speaking for the second time. “Come on. And tell me the details as we go, if you’ve enough breath left. We can’t stand here chattering.”
He ushered Colin out with another gesture, and they set off at their best pace up the slope towards Heather Lodge. Colin was hard put to it to find breath to amplify his tale; but bit by bit he managed to convey to Northfleet all that he himself knew of the episode. As he told it, he had the feeling that ages had elapsed since the events occurred. Time seemed to have become distorted under the emotional strains through which he had passed. Northfleet made few interruptions: a sharp question from time to time, to clear up some incident. When Colin had been pumped dry, Northfleet dismissed the past without comment and turned to the immediate future.
“Four of them survived. Against that we may rake up ourselves—two—and the Heather Lodge guards—that makes four—and perhaps Leven’s assistant—five in all. Leven’s not likely to be much good; and you say this detective’s knocked out and useless. H’m! Are you any sort of a shot with a pistol, Trent?”
“I know how to fire either a revolver or an automatic. Can reload it, I mean. But I’m no crack shot.”
“Close thing, then, at the best. These fellows seem to be the real gunman brand, if they shoot on sight. Four of them. Against that, I’m a fair shot myself; Natorp and Zelensky are first-claas, from all I’ve heard; you’re not much good; and we can neglect Leven and the other fellow. The odds aren’t in our favour, and that’s a fact.”
This cool reckoning up of chances came as a cold douche to Colin. Thinking only in numbers, he had put the odds as six to four against the gunmen and had counted on a speedy and certain victory. Now, however, it looked as though the actual superiority lay with the invaders. His heart sank at the thought. The fate of the two girls hung on the chance of a swift turning of the tables; but the facts warranted no optimism in that respect.
He wasted no breath in talking, once his tale was told; and Northfleet, on his side, remained grimly silent. They topped the ridge and were able to look down over the southern shore of Ruffa. To their right, Wester Voe was dark, save for one window on the upper floor.
“What room’s that?” Northfleet demanded.
“Jean’s bedroom,” said Colin, with a gulp. “Can’t see the public rooms from here. All on the other side of the house except the dining-room, and it’s dark.”
“I remember that.”
On the other side of the bay people were astir in Heather Lodge, for lights glowed in more than one window. Colin and Northfleet spent no time in further survey, but set off down the slope at their best pace. Colin had got his breath again during the brief pause. Now, driven by