"I reckoned it might be done if a fellow used his legs well. That stuff doesn't look fit to drink; but after the mud has settled a bit it will be better than nothing. I am to blame for not cleaning the spring out when I first knew that the children had wasted the supply."
"You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, Mark," his aunt said as she laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You have taken the place of both your father and uncle, and there is not a man grown who could have done more, or better, work."
The lad's face flushed with pleasure at this praise, but he affected to give no heed to the words as he clambered into the loft, musket in hand, calling out when he was on the timbers above:
"Give us the ammunition up here, and we'll load our own guns until the enemy comes too fast."
Mistress Pemberton handed him only a portion of the powder and bullets, after which she stood on the top of a table ready to take the empty weapons when the sharpshooters required her services.
Mark was the first to discharge his musket, and a cry of pain followed the report, telling that the ammunition had not been wasted.
"What did you see?" his mother asked, anxiously.
"An Indian's head over the top of the fence near the gate. There's one villain the less to trouble us!"
At this moment Susan and Luke both fired, the reports coming so near together as to sound like one, and the girl cried, triumphantly:
"I've hit another! What did you do, Luke?"