CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WINDMILL FORT.
While Frank was calling out after this manner everybody was making haste to show as little of their person as possible. As there was not much shelter of any kind available, the only way this could be accomplished was to flatten out on the ground.
By some species of good luck it happened that there was a dip to the earth at the base of the low elevation on which the windmill had been built. Frank afterward called it a “swale.” It ran away from the spot in a zigzag fashion, and perhaps if one were agile and clever, he might even manage to wriggle along this dip without exposing much of his person to those in the tower.
The four of them thus wallowed, and tried to exchange remarks.
“There goes another shot,” said Billy, as a report came to their ears. “I hope nobody’s been hit so far. How about that?”
“No damage here,” replied Frank immediately.
“I am pleased to say the same, young m’sieu,” added the Frenchman.
“Well, so far I haven’t felt a wound, but I’m expecting something dreadful to happen any minute now,” Pudge called out ruefully.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Pudge?” demanded Billy.