“Not often,” said Ned, “but it will come at times.”
“Do you?” said Griggs, turning to Chris, who looked thoughtful.
“Yes: I did only yesterday,” was the reply. “I was at the bottom of the big peach-orchard, when I regularly jumped, for there was a sharp whizz close to my ear, and I began to think of the Indians hiding behind every bush.”
“But it couldn’t have been an arrow,” cried Griggs.
“No; only a hawk making a dash at one of those blue-breasted birds; but it set me thinking of arrows flying, and using one’s rifle too.”
“Ah, rough times those,” said Griggs, picking up two oranges, and then a third, to keep them, juggler fashion, following one another through the air. “Like to go again?”
“No!” shouted Chris and Ned together, in a way which disconcerted the juggler so that the oranges all came down, to be picked up quickly, as the American said sharply—
“Same here. Once was enough.”