“Oh yes. I’ve heard all about it from Wing,” said Uncle Jeff dryly. “I gave him a lesson in the use of the revolver before he left home, but I didn’t know he was going to turn out such an awful fire-eater as he has.”
“Don’t you think you had better come in and have something to eat, uncle?” said Stan quietly. “It will do you more good than making fun of me.”
“Fun, Stan, my lad? Oh! I don’t call this fun. Wing says you’ve become quite a general.”
“Wing’s a—Chinaman,” said Stan, with a laugh full of annoyance, which made the two men exchange glances—looks which the lad interpreted to mean, “Hadn’t we better leave off?”
And in this spirit Uncle Jeff clapped his hand upon the boy’s shoulder and said heartily:
“Take me round and show me the damage done by the enemy, my boy.”
“There’s very little to see, uncle, but the chipped stone and the leaden bullets and pieces of iron the enemy poured in.”
“The bullets—eh? What! in the stone?”
“No, no, uncle,” cried the lad. “Stuck in the door-posts and woodwork.”
“What about the windows where the stink-pots came flying in as if all the stars in the sky had broken loose?”