While they were walking across the yard toward the wood-shed, a window in the main part of the building was cautiously raised, a stream of fire issued from the opening, a report, like that of a small cannon, rang out on the air, and a handful of buckshot went whistling toward the barn.
“The old fellow was prepared to defend himself, wasn’t he?” said Dick. “A charge from that blunderbuss would clean out a dozen robbers.”
Then raising his voice, he called out:
“No use in wasting any more ammunition, Mr. Stebbins. They are gone.”
“There’s no use in wasting your breath in that fashion, either,” said Bob. “He’s so deaf he can hardly hear it thunder. Come back into the barn and let the window go.”
“Hold on!” replied Dick. “Perhaps he will come out, so that we can explain matters to him.”
“No, he won’t,” said Bob, earnestly. “He is frightened half to death, and he will not show his head before daylight. It would be dangerous for his most intimate friend to come near the house now, for he will stand guard at that window, and shoot at every living thing he sees, without stopping to ask questions.”
It was with a good deal of reluctance that Dick consented to follow his friend’s advice, for he thought it looked like a confession of guilt on their part; but he did follow it, and he afterwards learned that it was the very best thing he could have done.
If he and Bob had attempted to approach the house in order to explain matters to its terrified inmates, one or the other of them would have been killed beyond a doubt.
They retreated to the barn before Mr. Stebbins could reload his ponderous musket, felt their way to the mow, and sat down on the hay to think over the events of the night.