Next morning we saw a little procession come out of the hotel. Walking ahead was The Man, as jaunty as ever, or at least trying to be. A man can’t be very jaunty with a limp in his left leg and his eyes swelled ’most shut with hornet stings. Behind him were three Japanese carrying bundles over their shoulders. It looked like they were abandoning the siege.

“Hey, Mark!” I yelled. “Come look! The war’s over.”

He came hustling and watched the Japanese till they traveled out of sight around the bend of the road.

“We licked ’em,” says I.

“Tallow,” says Mark, “you m-may be right. I hope so. But—I calc’late you ain’t.”

“Then what are they goin’ away for?”

“To make you think what you thought,” says he. “And,” he says, “where’s the fifth man?”

Would you believe it, but I hadn’t noticed the fifth man wasn’t there. That did make it look a bit fishy until I had an idea. “Maybe he was on guard across the lake,” says I.

Mark nodded. “Maybe so,” he says, “but I guess we won’t l-l-lower the drawbridge, for all that. If Motu’s worth gettin’ he’s worth tryin’ for harder’n those f-fellows have tried. And if I’m any judge The Man Who Will Come isn’t a quitter.”

“A nest of hornets’ll make ’most anybody quit,” says I.

“Yes,” says he, “but we’re just out of h-hornets—and he knows it. He knows we can’t be f-f-firin’ hornet bombs at him every trip.”

“What do you figger they’re goin’ to do, then?”

“Somethin’ we don’t f-f-figger on,” says he, with a grin. “That man has got a scheme, I’ll bet, and it’ll be harder to beat him when he schemes than when he just f-f-fights.”

“Well?” says I.

“Well,” says he, “we’ll get to work strengthenin’ our defenses. Plunk and Binney keep watch—and a sharp watch, t-t-too. You and Motu come along.”

I’ve told you that the citadel was three stories high. The lower floor had been an old boat-house; the second and third floors had been sleeping-rooms for the help and storage. There was just one stairway leading up, and that was outside. It started from the platform facing the hotel and went up to the first balcony; then it took another start from there and went up to the balcony of the third floor. There wasn’t any other way to get up.

“Here’s our secondary l-line of defense,” says Mark, when we got to the stairs. “We’ll fix ’em so’s they’ll be hard to climb. S’pose the enemy should make a landin’ on the island. Well, we’ll retreat to the second floor—and there won’t be any stairs to climb up to us on.”

“Goin’ to chop ’em down?”

“No,” says he. “Goin’ to p-p-pull ’em up.”

“Can’t be done,” says I. “They’re nailed down.”

“I’ll show you,” says he.

There were some old tools in the boat-house and we got them out. First we drew the nails that held down the bottom of the stairs. Next we braced the stairs so they couldn’t fall, and sawed through the side-pieces at the top. Mark fixed these just like he had fixed the drawbridge—with hinges. When that was all done he drove staples in the lower step, fastened a rope to them, and led it through another staple in the roof. The end of the rope he tied to a nail at the top of the stairs where it would be handy.

“Let’s try her,” says I.

We did, and the stairs came up as easy as falling off a log—just raised up against the floor above, and didn’t leave a thing to come up on. We lowered them again and braced them with two-by-fours. After that we fixed the stairs between the third and second floors the same way.

“I guess we’ll be pretty d-d-difficult to get at up here,” says Mark. And I thought so, too.

“Bring the lances,” says Mark. And I got them and put them handy at the top of the first stairway.

“Now,” says he, “barrin’ a surprise, we’re in pretty good shape.”

When we were all through we were pretty tired and sat down on the ground under the spruce-trees to rest. Mark had a book and I got out a Boston paper we had brought with us. It was pretty nearly a week old, but I figured there might be something interesting in it, for all that.

I sort of browsed around in it without finding anything to get excited about, till I came to the third or fourth page, but there was a little piece about two inches long that told how the Japanese minister to the United States had taken a summer place at Fullington in the State we were in, and was planning to stay there till the 1st of September. It told a little about the house and grounds, but that wasn’t so interesting.

“Mark,” says I, “listen.” And I read it to him. “Do you s’pose Motu’s got anythin’ to do with him?” I whispered it so Motu wouldn’t hear. He was a dozen feet off and dozing, anyhow.

“Somehow,” says Mark, “I b’lieve this would be as much news to Motu as it is to us.”

“Funny thing,” says I, “that the Japanese minister would be in this State, and that Motu would be here, and that five other Japs would be if there wasn’t some connection.”

“Don’t b’lieve it,” says he. “We’ll see.” He turned and called Motu, who opened his eyes quick and sprang up. “No danger,” says Mark, with a grin, “just wanted to ask you a question.”

“Of course,” says Motu, “I shall be glad to answer.”

“Did you know,” says Mark, “that the minister f-f-from your country had taken a summer home in this State?”

“What?” says Motu, excited in a second.

“He has,” says Mark. “Near Fullington, wherever that is. Let’s see.”

Mark always carried one of those little pocket dictionaries with maps of all the States, and how to tell the number of board feet in a log, and how to get a sliver out of your finger, and how many folks live in Timbuctoo, and how many ounces in a pound, and the area of Greenland, and such-like wisdom. He took it out and found our State and began looking for Fullington. In a minute he found it, and according to t............