"Now, boys, gather them in. Don’t let one get away." And at the word I fired three or four shots at the group and my men followed my example. The surprise was complete. At the fusillade there was a scattering of the gang, and with a sudden realization of the importance of their personal safety they took to their heels and ran into Franklin Street. "That was a foine job, sor. We must have hit a power of thim," said Reardon, with an exemplary faith in our marksmanship. "I hope so," I said. I had been roused to fury by the deliberate preparations to burn the house, and had shot to do mischief. "It looks as though we had got one fellow, anyhow," I added, as I discovered a dark heap on the ground, and heard a whimpering groan. We jumped down from the fence, and an advance of a few steps confirmed my guess. A man lay writhing on the earth, giving utterance to suppressed sounds of pain. Reardon knelt over him. "Why, it’s Danny Regan!" he cried. "What th’ divil are ye doin’ here, Danny?" "Go ’way, ye murderin’ spalpeen!" replied the stricken Danny. "Me leg is bruk. ’Tis a bullet sthruck me knee." "’Twas me that give it to yez, Danny," said Reardon with a chuckle. "I picked ye out, me lad--an’ whin Pat Reardon takes aim he niver misses. If he don’t hit wan thing he hits another--an’ it’s dollars to dimes the other thing’s jist as good." The wounded man replied to this boast with an outbreak of curses. "Yer timper’s been soured, Danny," said Reardon. "That comes of mixin’ in bad company. ’’Tis evil communications corrupts a good disposition,’ says Father Ryan; an’ if you’d listened to him you’d a-been home an’ in bed now wid two sound legs instead of wan." "Well, take me home, Pat," groaned the wounded conspirator; "though maybe you’d like to make a clane job of it by puttin’ wan iv yer bullets t’rough me head." "Faith, I wouldn’t waste another wan on yez. Bullets cost money. If I did me dooty I’d settle yer case by mashin’ yer head in wid a rock." "We wouldn’t get so far as that," I said. "We’ll compromise by holding him prisoner of war. Up with him now." Our inexpert handling brought whimpers and curses from the prisoner. And in a few minutes we had him bestowed as comfortably as possible in the little room that the watchmen had used as a lounging place. "Now," said I to my messenger, "get over to Doctor Roberts’ house as fast as you can. Tell him Mr. Kendrick is hurt, and bring him back with you. Hurry!" The messenger had scarce disappeared when Reardon exclaimed: "Whist! There comes some more of ’em."