So Jakie, grasping the rudder by its neck, proceeded to paddle with it off one side until the cross-bar broke and the lines got into a hopeless tangle with his arms.
“What did I tell yer?” shouted Slats.
“Now-one-two-three,” encouraged someone on shore.
Sweet Caporal, holding his oar about two feet from its end so as to lose all its leverage, pulled furiously, the blade only catching the water occasionally, Jim Mattenburg, with no oar-lock at all, improvised one hand into a lock and hauled frantically with the other one, while Jakie Mattenburg bailed the boat, which was now pretty loggy with its weight of water.
“Talk about your Yale Crew!” called one of the watchers.
“The new marine merry-go-round!” shouted another.
“Now-one-two—”
The sharp crack of a rifle was heard from the woods on the opposite shore from the picnickers; one of the Mattenburg boys was conscious of a quick, short whizzing sound, and then Charlie, the youngest of the O’Connor boys, who was standing close to the shore, slapped his right hand quickly to his left arm, looked about bewildered, then turned suddenly pale and staggered into the arms of one of the picnic party.
“Look—look,” he said, releasing his hand and affrightedly pointing to a little trickle of blood on his arm. “I’m—I’m shot—look—”