“Stop that, you lunatic!” he shouted, his face dark with anger.
“Came mighty near losing an eye,” growled Buckhart, wiping away a drop of blood where one of the shots had grazed his face.
“Come out here and show yourself!” cried Fitzgerald, replacing the soft felt hat which had been knocked off.
“Yes, consarn ye!” exclaimed Lysander Cobmore, shaking a lean fist toward the woods. “What in time d’ye mean?”
There was no reply, but Merriwell’s keen ear caught a faint rustling among the leaves.
“I’m going to see who the idiot is,” he said, in a low tone. “If we’re to stay around here, we can’t be running the risk of being shot in the back any minute.”
Without waiting for a reply, he darted through the undergrowth and disappeared. Brad was at his heels, and a moment later the remainder of the party heard a smothered exclamation, followed by the sound of talking, in which they distinguished the tones of a strange voice.
Then the crashing through the bushes was resumed, and presently three figures appeared in sight. Fitzgerald chuckled suddenly.
“Pipe the willie-boy, Teddy,” he said, in a low tone. “Wouldn’t that frost you! Bet he took us for deer.”
“He looks like the kind that would,” Baxter returned, with a grin.