“That’s better,” said my father, coolly resting his gun on the stern, and half lying down in the boat. “Hah! I could see that.”
I had also seen what appeared to be a quick movement of the bushes a short distance from the edge of the bank, a movement which seemed such as would have been made by an animal dashing through.
The waving of the foliage stopped just by a great swamp oak, and upon this tree I fancied that my father fixed his eye.
“Dah again,” said Pomp, excitedly. “Going shoot um bow an’ arrow.”
Bang!
The boat rocked a little with the concussion, and as the smoke lifted, I saw an arrow drop into the river a long way to our left.
“I don’t think I hit him,” said my father; “but I disarranged his aim, and it will check him for a bit.”
His words proved correct, for though he stood up in the boat to re-charge his piece, and offered a striking object for the Indian’s arrows, none came; and as we floated on and on, it began to seem as if the one shot had been enough to scare the enemy. I said so, but my father shook his head.
“No such good fortune, my boy.”
“What are you going to do, father?” I said, after some minutes’ watching, and thinking how strange it was that my calm, quiet father, who was so fond of his studies and his garden, should in a time of emergency like this prove himself to be a firm soldier, ready to fight or scheme against our dangerous foes.