So Sim began to bombard the wall of the cabin. He made mighty sure not to fire in at that little gaping hole where the dead grass had hung until Pet knocked it through with his shot. If so be any damage was done to the inmates Sim did not mean to be accused as the guilty one.
Things seemed pretty lively for a time, with those two guns rattling away as fast as the owners could reload. From behind their trees the balance of the attacking crowd watched to see if there came any white flag of surrender. Beyond the boom of the guns, however, not a sound was heard, unless the excited voices of the eager boys were taken into consideration.
Bluff was plainly nervous. He tried to get up several times, and as often Frank pulled him down again.
“I just can’t stand it, with all that racket going on. Why don’t we have a share in it?” he begged, piteously.
“Because we don’t want to expose our hand. Give those silly chumps time and they will play the game to suit us. Wait till their last shell has been fired; then we control the situation. See?” whispered his comrade, soothingly.
“Frank, you hit me again that time. What a goose I am. Why, of course that’s the racket for us. Let ’em go on and roll their hoop!” answered Bluff, who at least was always ready to admit the error of his ways when convinced.
The shooting soon came to an end, for neither Sim nor Bill seemed to have any great amount of ammunition with them.
“That’s my last shell!” declared the former, presently.
“An’ I got my last in the gun. Shall I use ’em, Pet?” demanded the other.
“’Course, an’ send it in the windy this time,” growled the one addressed.