Lanky helped Buster to his feet, and the four boys were now standing alongside each other, all looking up, the twigs and branches crackling beneath them as they tried to move from one spot to another.
“Guess you boys won’t throw any more folks out of their bunks, will you? How you feel? Comfortable?” called Snadder again.
Frank anxiously watched for the fellow to come within sight on the floor of the cabin above, but he was too wary. The tramp knew the two boys who had first gone down into the hole were in possession of their weapons.
Looking up to the floor level, it was easily seen that the hole was no less than ten feet deep, and, as their eyes became accustomed to the darkness the boys saw that it was just large enough for four of them comfortably.
“You are the fellows, then who took all our stuff at our camp, are you?” asked Frank.
“You put us out of there, didn’t you?” parried Snadder. He was keeping himself out of sight. Frank had his rifle ready for quick use, having determined that if a leg or an arm showed up over their heads he would injure the owner and gain a little advantage.
There was, however, he thought to himself, the danger that if he shot at either of the tramps, they, in turn, would fire on the boys, perhaps to kill, for they had two guns with them now, and the boys were at the very great disadvantage of being huddled together in a close space.
On the other hand, thought Frank, would they not be afraid to shoot? Not because of the result of the shooting. But would they not be fearful of showing a part of their bodies, which they would have to do in order to shoot?
“You took all our knives, forks, spoons, lamps, fishing tackle and that stuff—what was the big idea, Snadder?” Frank went on with his questions.
There was a chuckle from overhead.