“Say,” muttered Harry, his face showing real concern, “I hope I didn’t hit him.”
“Did you aim at him?” demanded Tom.
“I did not.”
“Then there _is_ some chance that Peter was hit,” Tom confessed. “Harry, when you’re shooting at a friend, and in a purely hospitable way, always aim straight for him. Then the poor fellow will have a good chance to get off with a whole skin!”
“Cut out that line of talk,” ordered Hazelton, his face growing red. “Back in the old home days, Tom, you’ve seen me do some great shooting.”
“With the putty-blower—-yes,” Tom admitted, with a chuckle. “Say, wasn’t Old Dut Jones, of the Central Grammar, rough on boys who used putty-blowers in the schoolroom?”
“If Pete was hit, it wasn’t my shot that did it,” muttered Harry, growing redder still. “I aimed for the centre of that white rag. If we ever come across the rag we’ll find my bullet hole through it. That was what I hit.”
Deputy Dave’s assistant was now cleaning out the soot-choked barrels of the machine gun, that the piece might be fit for use again as soon as the barrels had cooled.
“I reckon,” declared Dave, “that our friends have done their worst. It’s my private wager that they’re now doing a foot race for the back trails.”
“Is any one of our fellows hit?” called Tom, striding over to the late firing line. “Anyone hit? If so, we must take care of him at once.”