Mr. Stebbins is angry
“Turn that we’pon t’other way,” said he, his rage giving way to alarm. “I don’t like it.”
“Do you suppose that we like to look into the muzzle of a cocked gun any better than you do?” demanded Dick. “Come on, Bob; let’s go down there.”
The boys slung their baskets on their backs, picked up their fishing-rods, and descended to the barn floor.
As they passed out into the open air, they took note of the fact that the door was riddled with buckshot. If they had stood there instead of going toward the house, to close the shutter which the robbers had left open in their hurried flight, one or the other of them would have received some of those shot in his body.
When they got out of the barn, they were surprised to find that Mr. Stebbins had beat a hasty retreat. He had taken refuge in the wood-shed, and all they could see of him was the top of his head above the window-sill.
He held his gun so that he could bring it to his shoulder very quickly if circumstances should seem to require it. Believing his position to be impregnable, he had grown savage again.
“Now, then, clear out!” he shouted, as soon as the boys came into view. “But mind what I say—this thing ain’t a-goin’ to be dropped here.”
“We’d rather it wouldn’t be dropped here,” replied Dick. “If you will put down your gun, and come out here so that we can talk to you, we shall be glad to explain matters.”
“They don’t need any explainin’!” snarled Mr. Stebbins. “I understand ’em already. I can see as fur into a grindstone as the next man, old as I be. Clear yourselves.”