“There may be twenty in the tent,” said Murphy cautiously.
“Do what I tell you,” answered the man in command.
Murphy progged his bayonet through the canvas, and sunk the deadly point of the instrument into the bag of potatoes.
“Faith, he sleeps sound,” said Murphy with a tremor of fear in his voice, as there was no demonstration on the part of the bag.
The voice of Yates rang out from the interior of the tent:
“What the old Harry do you fellows think you’re doing, anyhow? What’s the matter with you? What do you want?”
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by a nervous scuffling of feet and the clicking of gun-locks.
“How many are there of you in there?” said the stern voice of the chief.
“Two, if you want to know, both unarmed, and one ready to fight the lot of you if you are anxious for a scrimmage.”
“Come out one by one,” was the next command.