“What’s this mean?” again demanded Gashwiler. He was now a man of one idea.
Again was Merton Gill saved from the need of instant speech, though not in a way he would have chosen to be saved. The three Ransom children ran up, breathless, shouting.
“Oh, Merton, here’s your pistol. I found it right in the road there.” “We found your pistol right in the dirt there. I saw it first.” “You did not; I saw it first. Merton, will you let me shoot it off, Merton? I found your pistol, didn’t I, Merton? Didn’t I find it right in the road there?” The friendly tots did little step dances while they were thus vocal.
“Be quiet, children,” commanded Merton, finding a voice. But they were not to be quelled by mere tones.
“He throwed Merton right off into the dirt, didn’t he, Merton? Merton, didn’t he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton? Did he hurt you, Merton?” “Merton, will you let me shoot it off just once—just once, and I’ll never ask again?” “He didn’t either find it first, Merton.” “He throwed you off right into the dirt—didn’t he throw you right off into the dirt, Merton?”
With a harsher show of authority, or perhaps merely because he was bearded—so unreasoning are the inhibitions of the young—Gashwiler stilled the tumult. The dancing died. “What’s this mean?” he repeated.
“We nearly had an accident,” said the lady.
“What’s this mean?”
An answer of sorts could no longer be delayed.
“Well, I thought I’d give Dexter a little exercise, so I saddled him up and was going to ride him around the block, when—when these kids here yelled and scared him so he ran away.”