“I don’t opine you’ll do any shooting this morning with this blunderbuss,” said the Texan.
The young fellow, who had been knocked floundering to the ground, recognized his antagonist of the previous morning and began to scramble away on all fours in ludicrous haste.
Puffing and gulping, old man Simpson rose from the pool and stood up with the water rising to his waist. The sharp tug given by Springer had torn the hook loose, and now Phil, without pausing to reel in, hurried to Stone’s side.
“You confounded rascals! You young whelps!” spluttered Hank Simpson, shaking his dripping fist at the two boys. “I’ll smash ye!”
“If I were in your place, sir,” said Grant, holding the gun, “I reckon I wouldn’t try any smashing. We were careful to keep on the side of the brook that you do not own, and we give due notice now that we’ll fish here whenever we please.”
“What be you doing on that side then?” demanded Simpson.
“Oh, I just came over to interview your worthy offspring. That’s him back yonder in the woods calling to you.”
“Dad—hey, dad!” Jim Simpson was crying. “They’ve got the gun.”
It must be recorded that Simpson senior gave utterance to language that would not look well in print.
“I’ll have the law on ’em!” he fumed, as he recovered his pitchfork and retreated toward his own land.