“Who’s going about always tied to a gun?” cried Norman, angrily.—“Here, aunt, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, my boy, my boy!” cried the old lady, throwing her arms about the lad’s neck, as he reached her first, and with so much energy that she would have upset him, and they would have fallen together had not his brother and cousin been close behind ready to give him their support.
“But don’t cling to me, auntie,” cried Norman, excitedly. “If you can’t stand, lie down. Where are they?”
“In—in the kitchen, my dear,” she panted; and then burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing, which came to an end as the boys hurriedly seated her beneath a tree.
“How many are there, aunt?” whispered Rifle, excitedly.
“Only one, my boys.”
“One?” cried Norman. “I say, boys, we aren’t afraid of one, are we?”
“No,” cried the others.
“But I wish old Tam o’ Shanter was here with his nulla-nulla.”
“Never mind,” said Norman, flushing up as he felt that, as eldest, he must take the lead. “There is no chance to get the guns. We’ll run round by the wood-house; there are two choppers and an axe there. He won’t show fight if he sees we’re armed.”