"Ha-ha, Pede!" says I when I got back, "I fooled you!"
"By one eench!" says he, looking at my hat.
"Inch is as good as a mile, and that cussed noise is stopped for a while, anyhow."
A stone rattled back of us.
"Look to the doors, quick!" says Pedro.
We hopped to our places.
"Many coming down the hill!" says Gonzales.
It wasn't that I had scared or impressed my friends by my oration that they hadn't shot further; no, they simply took advantage of the opportunity to work a sneak on us from behind. I call that low-down. Howsomever, it didn't matter what I called it. They were at our back door, knocking hard.
Skipping gaily from tree to rock, they was full as well sheltered as we. Worst of all, when the store was built, the stones from the cellar had been placed in a row behind—not fifteen feet from the back door. There was no way under heaven we could keep them from lining up behind that stone wall, and hitting us all in a lump when they got ready.
We shut and barricaded the front door. That side of the store must take care of itself. We simply had to put all hands to meet the rush.