“I’m sorry, Ross,” Dan said, noticing the other’s keen disappointment. “If it means so much to you, keep the role.”
Ross shook his head and tried to grin.
“No, you won the part and it’s yours for good,” he said.
“Well spoken, Ross,” said Mr. Hatfield, clapping him on the back. “A Cub has to be a good sport about losing out. You’ll be an asset to the play as the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
“Oh, sure,” Ross murmured, smiling weakly.
The Cubs started toward the target, intending to retrieve their arrows.
Before they could cross the range, three arrows were shot in rapid succession over their heads. Each lodged in almost the center of the target.
Amazed, the boys whirled around. The archer who had sent the arrows winging had drawn his bow from a long distance away. But he was nowhere in sight.
“Who shot those arrows?” Mr. Hatfield demanded. “That was real shooting!”
“I think they came from that clump of bushes to the right!” Brad exclaimed. “It must be that mysterious fellow who’s always taking shots over our heads. Let’s nab him.”