“But he won’t, all the same!” cried George, grimly.
Since shouting and gesturing seemed to have no effect upon the imperiled youth, all the four boys could do was to stand there, holding their breath, and watching the dreadful developments. Nor was that the first time or the last that they found occasion to hold their breath.
Nick by now believed that he had wheedled enough, and was within proper striking distance. They saw him make a sudden forward swoop, with extended arms, as if bent upon giving the intended victim no possible chance of escape.
“Wow!” yelled George, as he saw Nick stop short, throw up his arms, and almost fall to the ground.
One terrified look Buster gave the object of his recent admiration. Then turning, he ran as well as he could toward camp, gripping his nose with both hands.
“Keep off!”
“Don’t you dare come near us, do you hear!”
“Now you’ve gone and done it, Buster! That’s what you get for wanting to bake poor little Jocko!”
George, as if in desperation, jumped over and picked up his gun.
“Stop where you are!” he cried. “We’re willing to talk this thing over; but at a proper distance, do you hear, Buster?”