ely clear, but I proposed to defend Claire in every way
possible.

"Tom," I whispered briefly, "find the boys, and bring them in here,
through that broken window. They are in the orchard to the right, and
there are no guards in front. Move lively, but be quiet."

"What is it, Major?" asked young Mortimer, eagerly.

"I can't explain now. I must get back where I can see and hear. But there
is going to be a fight. Hold the men ready here until I call. See that
their weapons are in good order."

I caught the glint of his eye, but could wait no longer. Indeed I was
scarcely back, snuggled under the stairs, when Bill came forth, gripping
the collar of his prisoner's coat, and urging him down the hall. I
crouched lower, the morning light threatening to reveal my hiding place,
yet with mind more at ease, now I knew the men were close at hand. Within
five minutes the entire squad would be crowded into that room, eager for
trouble to begin. Probably Fagin did not have a half-dozen fellows in the
house. If we could strike swiftly enough we might overpower them all,
without creating alarm outside, where the main body lay. Some
carelessness had brought us good luck in having the front of the house
left unguarded. These thoughts swept over me, and left me confident. The
time had come when I was to serve her, to prove my own worthiness. I felt
ready and eager for the trial.

I caught a glimpse of Jenks's face, as Bill jerked him forward. The man
was gray with terror, his parchment-like skin seamed and contorted. He
was a tall, loose-jointed creature, wearing a long black coat flapping
about his knees. The guard fairly held him up in the doorway, and both
Fagin and Jones laughed at the pitiful sight, the former ending his roar
with an outburst of profanity.

"Go on back ter the front door, Bill," he ordered roughly. "This
fellow'll never run away; his legs wouldn't carry him. Now, Mr.
Preacher," glowering savagely at the poor devil across the bottle-strewn
table, "do yer know who I am?"

Jenks endeavored to answer, from the convulsive movement of his throat,
but made no sound. Fagin cursed again.

"If it wasn't such a waste of good liquor I'd pour some of this down your
gullet," he exclaimed, shaking a half-filled bottle in his fist. "Then
maybe you could answer when I spoke to you. Now, see here, you canting
old hypocrite, I'm Red Fagin, an' I guess you know what that means. I'm
pisen, an' I don't like your style. Now you're