“There’s no use talking, Bart,” observed Ned, “you can put it all over us when it comes to handling a rifle.”
“Well, I’ve had more practice,” said Bart modestly. “You fellows will do as good when you’ve had more experience.”
“I’m afraid not,” spoke Fenn, with a sigh. “Here, see if I can hit that tin can on the fence post.”
He raised the weapon, sighted it carefully, and pulled the trigger. There was no smoke, for the powder was of the self-consuming type, but a bright sliver of flame shot from the muzzle of the gun, plainly visible in the fast-gathering darkness. The can was not touched, but, an instant after Fenn fired, some one beyond the fence set up a great shouting.
“Great Caesar, Stumpy, you’ve shot some one!” gasped Bart.
Poor Fenn turned a sickly color, and the rifle fell from his nerveless hands. The shouts continued, and there was a commotion in the bushes.
A little later Alice Keene, with her hands full of bandages, and carrying a small medicine chest, rushed from the house and past the group of terror-stricken lads toward the fence, whence the yells continued to come.
“Oh!” cried the girl. “I was afraid some one would get hurt when you boys used those horrid guns! You had better telephone for a doctor, Bart, while I go see if I can stop the bleeding! Who is hurt?”
“We—we don’t know,” faltered Fenn. “I was shooting at a can, but I missed it. I didn’t know anybody was in the bushes.”