We have stated where the farmer stood, and what his pose meant.
Tom Gordon was nearly recovered from his fractured leg, and he, too, had risen from his chair with his pistol in hand. He told Jim to get as near him--or rather behind him--as he could, and if there was to be any shooting, why, he would take a hand.
The sailors could not fail to take in the fact that the three were on their mettle, and something more than a summons was necessary to bring them to terms.
"Well, what do you want?" asked the farmer, in a voice like a growl, while he lowered upon them in the most ominous style.
"We want that boy," replied Bob, the sailor, pointing his pistol at the fellow, whose heart beat a little faster when he found himself confronted by such danger.
"Do you want to go with them?" asked the farmer of the boy.
"No; they mean to kill me; they've tried it already, and you can see that my clothes are still wet from jumping into the river to swim away from them."
"He belongs to us. We don't wish to hurt him; but he must go with us. If he refuses, we shall take him, and it will be bad for you."
"It will, eh?" muttered the farmer, a peculiar click, click, where his hand grasped the gun, showing that he was cocking the weapon, so as to be ready for business. "It will, eh? Now I'll give you just two seconds and a half to take yourselves out of my sight, and if you don't, I'll empty both barrels of this gun into you."
"Let me know when you're going to shoot, Mr. Pitcairn," said Tom, also cocking his revolver, "because I want to join in."