Junkie accepted the compliment with a dignified smile, and then sat down to wait; but it was a severe trial of patience to both of them, for the old man slept steadily on, and even snored. He seemed, in short, to have fairly gone to bed for the night.
“What say ye to bomb stanes at ’um?” suggested Donald.
“An’ kill ’im, maybe,” returned Junkie, with sarcasm in his eye.
“Heave divits at ’um, then.”
“Ay; that’s better.”
Accordingly, the two urchins tore up a mass of turf which was much too heavy to heave.
“Let’s row’d,” suggested the active-minded Donald.
As this also met the approval of Junkie, they carried the “divit,” or mass of turf, to the bank just above the sleeper, and, taking a careful aim, let it go. The bank was not regular. A lump diverted the divit from its course, and it plunged into the pool, to the obvious discomposure of the fish, which was still at intervals tugging at the line. Another divit was tried, but with similar result. A third clod went still further astray. The bombardment then became exciting, as every kind of effort does when one begins to realise the beneficial effect of practice.
“I can see how it is,” whispered Junkie, as he carefully “laid” the next gun. “If we keep more to the right, it’ll hit that lump o’ grass, glance into the hollow, and—”
He stopped abruptly, and both boys stood in crab-like attitudes of expectation, ready to fly, for the divit took the exact course thus indicated, and bounding down the bank, hit MacRummle fair on his broad back.