The dialog on the bank continued.
"Thar, you kin see thar air men in a canoe," said the first voice.
"I can't see nothin' o' the kind," replied the other.
"If hit ain't a log with three dead limbs, hit's a piece o' barn-timber with the j'ists a-stickin' up."
"I don't believe hit nary mite. Hit's men, an' I'm a-gwine t' shoot."
"No, yo' hain't gwine t' make a durned fool o' yourself. Wait a minute. Hit's a-comin' nigher, an' soon you kin hit it with a rock. I'll jest do hit t' show yo how skeery yo' air. Le'me look around an' find a good rock t' throw. If I kin find jest the right kind I kin hit a yallerhammer at that distance."
This prospect was hardly more reassuring than that of being fired at, but there was nothing to do but to take whatever might come. To make it more aggravating, the current had slowed down, until the motion of their log was very languid. They were about 100 feet from the shore when they heard the second voice say:
"Heah, I've got jest the right kind o' a dornick. Now jest keep yer eye peeled an' fixed on that center limb, an' yo'll hear it chunk when I plunk hit an' show hit's nothin' but a stick o' wood."
Si thought he saw the Lieutenant crouch a little, but was not sure.
The stone came whistling through the air, struck the top of the Lieutenant's cap and knocked it off into the water.