"There, I heard shots!" "Brave, aren't you ?" jeered Tom.
Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.
Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear; for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and listened.
Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.
Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet, while a voice roared hoarsely: "Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr.Reade, then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!" "Fine!" chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even whiter than the cloths covering them.

"That voice sounds familiar to me, too." Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as though others were urging a less violent course.
"It's the workmen from the camp!" guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice that shook as though from ague.
"Sounds like it," chuckled Tom.

"Cheer up, Ashby.

If it's our railroad crew I'll try to see to it that they don't do more than half kill you!" Then, raising his voice, Tom called gleefully: "Hello, there! You'll find us in the cellar." "Why don't you kill that fool!" muttered Jim Duff, who, still dazed, struggled to sit up.
"Hush, man, for goodness sake!" implored the badly frightened Ashby.
Duff, with rapidly returning consciousness, now leaped to his feet, drawing his pistol and springing at Reade.
"Hold on!" Tom proposed coolly.

"You're too late!" The sudden flooding of light into the place and the rush of hobnailed shoes on the stairs recalled even the gambler's scattered senses.
"There they are!" yelled a voice.