“Bah! Don’t ask questions, boy,” said his father in an impatient whisper. “There, there! of course you want to know. Here, Stan, can you fight?”
“A little, father,” said the boy in a tone full of surprise. “I had two or three sets-to at school.”
“Pooh! Absurd! Look here, boy; your uncle Jeff was alarmed by sounds down by the warehouse entry, and looking out cautiously, he saw men at work by the big doors.”
“Robbers, father?” said the boy excitedly.
“Yes, robbers—river pirates.”
“And you want me to go for the police?”
“No, boy; I want you to help us to keep the wretches at bay. We shall be only three with you, and we can’t afford to reduce our numbers to two. Can you load and fire a pistol?”
“Yes, father; Tom Dicks and I used to go rabbit-shooting with one—”
“Then you ought to be able to hit a man if you can shoot rabbits.”
The thought flashed across the boy’s brain that, though he and his fellow-pupil had gone shooting on the Clovelly cliffs times enough, they had never once hit a rabbit; but there was no time to communicate this fact to his father. “And besides,” he thought, “I dare say firing the pistol will be enough; the noise will frighten the men away.”