"Oh, you're killing him! You're killing my father!" cried Miss Connie,
in a half scream, as, too frightened to move, she stood huddled back
in a corner, gripping a large cloak about her.
Buck stared at the scene a fraction of a second. He could understand it
all. The doctor had been alarmed and had gone downstairs to investigate.
Miss Connie had been awakened and had followed her father, thinking
probably that he was ill. All this flashed through the boy's mind as
he flung out his weaponless hands in despair, but the gesture was the
salvation of the household. His fingers touched something cold, hard,
polished. It was a huge, heavy, brass bowl that held a fern. How often
his strong young fingers had cleaned that bowl with powder and chamois
skin, with never a thought that it would serve him well some time!
Now he grasped it, and creeping noiselessly around the large, square
"balcony" of the upstairs hall, he stood directly above the ruffian
whose fingers yet clutched the doctor's throat.
"Catch that girl!" the other man was saying.
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