“Now, Hicky,” cried Dick, “who ever heard of a will-o’-the-wisp with a gun?”
“Can’t say as ever I did,” said the wheelwright; “but I don’t see why not.”
“What stuff! Do you hear what he says, Tom? He says it may have been one of the will-o’-the-wisps that shot and broke his finger.”
“A will-o’-the-wisp with a gun!” cried Tom. “Ha! ha! ha!”
“Why shouldn’t a will hev a goon as well as a lanthorn?” said Hickathrift, stolidly.
“Why, where would he get his powder and shot?” said Dick.
“Same place as he gets his candle for his lanthorn.”
“Oh, but what nonsense! The will-o’-the-wisp is a light that moves about,” cried Dick. “It is not anybody.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” said the wheelwright, lifting up his bandaged hand. “All I know is that something shot at me, and broke my finger just the same as something shot at Mester Marston. They don’t like it, lads. Mark my words, they don’t like it.”
“Who don’t like what?” said Tom.