“Take care,” cried Poole, “for you may cripple one and leave the other to dart at you.”
“Yes, and that wouldn’t be nice,” said the carpenter thoughtfully. “I don’t mind tackling one of them, but two at a time’s coming it a bit too strong. ’Tarn’t fair like.”
“Look here,” cried Fitz, “we’ll come in, and each have a joist. We should be sure to kill them then.”
“I dunno so much about that, gen’lemen. You might help, and you moten’t. If they made a rush you might be in my way, and you know, as old Andy says, Too many cooks spoil the snake-soup. Here, I know; I can soon turn them out.”
“How?” cried Poole, as the man stood the joist up against the wall.
“I’ll soon show you,” cried the carpenter, pulling out a match-box.
“You’ll burn the place down.”
“Nay,” cried the man; “them corn-shucks will just flare up with a fizz; I can trample them out before they catch the wood. You two be on the look-out, for there’s no knowing which window my gentlemen will make for as soon as they find as it aren’t the sun as is warming them up.”
He struck a match as he spoke, let the splint get well alight, and then stepping forward softly he stooped down to apply it to the pale, dry, creamy-looking corn-leaves.
“Look out!” cried Fitz excitedly.