I must trust to the sound
sleeping of Ewbank upstairs, open the door myself, knock the
visitor down, or shoot him with the revolver I had been new chum
enough to buy before leaving Melbourne, and make a dash for that
clump of trees and the doctor's mare. My mind was made up in an
instant, and I was at the top of the strong-room stairs, the
knocking still continuing, when a second sound drove me back. It
was the sound of bare feet coming along a corridor.
"My narrow stair was stone, I tumbled down it with little noise,
and had only to push open the iron door, for I had left the keys
in the safe. As I did so I heard a handle turn overhead, and
thanked my gods that I had shut every single door behind me. You
see, old chap, one's caution doesn't always let one in!
"'Who's that knocking?' said Ewbank up above.
"I could not make out the answer, but it sounded to me like the
irrelevant supplication of a spent man. What I did hear,
plainly, was the cocking of the bank revolver before the bolts
were shot back. Then, a tottering step, a hard, short, shallow
breathing, and Ewbank's voice in horror--
"'My God! Good Lord! What's happened to you? You're bleeding
like a pig!'
"'Not now,' came with a grateful sort of sigh.
"'But you have been! What's done it?'
"'Bushrangers.'
"'Down the road?'
"'This and Whittlesea--tied to tree--cock shots--left me--bleed
to death .
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