George looked complacently at the arrow, and at last seemed ready to make use of the paddles and spade. With some pompousness he traced a circle round his arrow, and looked so important that the boys could hardly suppress their laughter. But it seemed to them, boys though they were, that practical George was out of his sphere.
“Now, William,” he said, “bring me those paddles of yours.”
Will smiled to hear himself addressed by his full name, and turned to pick them up.
Steve, still thinking about his dog’s narrow escape from injury, snarled: “Don’t William him, or he’ll make you wilt.”
“Stop!” the Sage shouted to Will, even as Steve spoke. “I forgot. It is necessary that an arrow should yet be shot.”
“As your grammar would say,” supplemented wicked Stephen.
The Sage took no notice of these jeering words, but continued: “Yes, I must shoot an arrow through the very middle of the evergreen.”
Bob Herriman, who could hear every word, now had reason to be alarmed. Up to this time he had looked on calmly, intending to keep still till the boys should be very much engrossed, and then terrify them all in some mysterious way—how, he had not yet determined. Now, however, he lost sight of everything except his own safety, and not stopping to collect himself, he gave vent to the most ear-piercing, heart-appalling howl, shriek, and roar, combined in one, that the boys had ever heard.
Boys, imagine a deep-chested lad of sixteen mechanically drawing in a full breath, and then suffering it to escape in one long cry of mortal terror.