"Confound old Deacon Plummer!" retorted Fletcher impatiently. "Don't you know I might have you shot for what you've done?"
"Shot for whistling! Well, that beats all I ever heard of. I say, squire, your laws are stricter than any I ever came across. I didn't think I was doin' any harm."
"I will overlook it this time, but if you take any such liberty again, I'll have you tied to a tree and whipped."
"That's better than bein' shot, anyway. I won't do it again, squire. I aint particularly anxious to get into trouble."
"These Yankees are about as stupid and presuming as any people I ever met," Fletcher remarked to the comrade who rode beside him. "That fellow is a nuisance, but I mean to teach him a lesson before twenty-four hours are over."
Obed and the two boys awaited with anxiety the result of the summons. The camp was but an eighth of a mile away, but hidden by the trees.
"Will they hear it?" thought Obed.
It is doubtful whether this would have been the case, but luckily for our three friends one of the escort—by name Warner—was taking a walk in the woods, and heard the whistle. His curiosity was excited, and peering through the trees he saw the bushrangers and their captives.
He was a man of promptness, and returning to the camp with all expedition made a report to the officer in command.
"How many are there in the band?" inquired Captain Forbush.