“Yes, who was firing. Your father, of course.”
“You’re prevaricating, Griggs,” cried Chris huskily. “Tell me at once who fired that shot?”
“Which one? We tumbled two or three, or more, of the enemy down. So did you. I heard your rifle crack, and saw them come off the cliff.”
“No nonsense, Griggs; you know what I mean. I say, who fired that shot?”
“And I say which one? There were so many.”
“The one that saved my life.”
“Oh, I see,” cried the American; “that one. Well, I think it was either me or the doctor, but we were in such a state of excitement that it’s doubtful.”
“There, I was sure of it from the first,” cried Chris, holding out his hand; “it was you, Griggs.”
“I don’t say it was, and I don’t say it wasn’t, my lad,” said the American, turning away carelessly as if not seeing the extended hand; “but look here, it was bad enough for you, that set-to with the redskins; but it was all excitement and action; you had no time to think. It was a hundred times worse for us down below here.”
“Indeed?” said Chris half mockingly.