“Come on and bring the lamp!” he shouted, running down the steps.
Dick followed, but left the lamp alone. He did not know who had fired the shot and it might be imprudent to make himself conspicuous. Jake, who was a few yards in front, boldly took a narrow path through the brush, which rose to their shoulders. The darkness was thickened by the mist, but after a moment or two they heard somebody coming to meet them. It could hardly be an enemy, because the man wore boots and his tread was quick and firm. Dick noted this with some relief, but thought it wise to take precautions.
“Hold on, Jake,” he said and raised his voice: “Who’s that?”
“Payne,” answered the other, and they waited until he came up.
“Now,” said Jake rather sharply, “what was the shooting about?”
“There was a breed hanging round in the bushes and when he tried to creep up to the veranda I plugged him.”
“Then where is he?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” Payne answered apologetically. “I hit him sure, but it looks as if he’d got away.”
“It looks as if you’d missed. Where did you shoot from?”
Payne beckoned them to follow and presently stopped beside the heap of ironwork a little to one side of the shack. The lighted veranda was in full view of the spot, but there was tall brushwood close by and behind this the grass.