“Opened the door, I suppose, and started shooting,” said Bard, “if I had the courage.”

The other stared at him.

“You heard this story before?”

“Not this part.”

“Well, that was jest what we done.  First off, it sounds like a fool way of tacklin’ them; but when you think twice it was the best of all.  They never was expectin’ anybody fool enough to walk right into that room and start fightin’.  We went back and had a look at the door.

“It wasn’t none too husky.  John Bard, he tried the latch, soft, but the thing was locked, and when he pulled there was a snap.

“‘Who’s there?’ hollers someone inside.

“We froze ag’in’ the side of the house, lookin’ at each other pretty sick.

“‘Nobody’s there,’ sings out the voice of old Piotto.  ’We can trust Tom Shaw, jest because he knows that if he double-crossed us he’d be the first man to die.’

“And we heard Tom say, sort of quaverin’:  ’God’s sake, boys, what d’you think I am?’

“‘Now,’ says Bard, and we put our shoulders to the door, and takes our guns in our hands—­we each had two.

“The door went down like nothin’, because we was both husky fellers in them days, and as she smashed in the fall upset two of the boys sittin’ closest and gave ’em no chance on a quick draw.  The rest of ’em was too paralyzed at first, except old Piotto.  He pulled his gun, but what he shot was Tom Shaw, who jest leaned forward in his chair and crumpled up dead.

“We went at ’em, pumpin’ lead.  It wasn’t no fight at first and half of ‘em was down before they had their guns workin’.  But when the real hell started it wasn’t no fireside story, I’ll tell a man.  We had the jump on ’em, but they meant business.  I dropped to the floor and lay on my side, shootin’; Bard, he followered suit.  They went down like tenpins till our guns were empty.  Then we up and rushed what was left of ’em—­Piotto and his daughter.  Bard makes a pass to knock the gun out of the hand of Joan and wallops her on the head instead.  Down she goes.  I finished Piotto with my bare hands.”

“Broke his back, eh?”

“Me?  Whoever heard of breakin’ a man’s back?  Ha, ha, ha!  You been hearin’ fairy tales, son.  Nope, I choked the old rat.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

Lawlor searched his memory hastily; there was no information on this important point.

“Couple of grazes,” he said, dismissing the subject with a tolerant wave of the hand.  “Nothin’ worth talkin’ of.”

“I see,” nodded Bard.

It occurred to Lawlor that his guest was taking the narrative in a remarkably philosophic spirit.  He reviewed his telling of the story hastily and could find nothing that jarred.

He concluded:  “That was the way of livin’ in them days.  They ain’t no more—­they ain’t no more!”

“And now,” said Anthony, “the only excitement you get is out of books—­and running the labourers?”