“Keep your places!” Beveridge was calling to the others. “Keep your places! Now then, Mr. Spencer, we have you cornered. You can have your choice of giving up now or being starved out. Which will it be?”
No answer from the house.
“Speak up! I don't propose to waste much more time on you.”
This time the fugitive decided to reply; but his reply took the form of a second shot, sent carefully toward the spot in the weeds from which the voice seemed to be coming.
“Hi!” shouted Pink, “did he get you?”
“No. Shut up, will you?”
The man with the revolver was plainly an old hand, for now he fired a third time; and the shot came dangerously near, whether by luck or otherwise, to shutting up the speaker for all time. Beveridge dropped hastily behind a log that lay at his feet. Then, disgusted with himself, he scrambled boldly up and stood on the log.
Pink was obediently silent, 'though trembling with excitement. The stillness of the forest fell suddenly in upon them. For a few moments nothing was said or done. The man in the house had a momentary advantage which all recognized. What light the sky gave was all upon the clearing, and to move, however cautiously, through that tangle of weeds and bushes without setting the tops to waving, was impossible. The building was so small that the man could, with little effort, command all four sides. And so Beveridge decided on a council of war with Smiley. At his first movement another shot came cutting through the bushes; but he laughed aloud, and went deliberately on in a quarter circle until he found Smiley. “Well,” he said softly and gleefully, “we've got him.”
“If we can keep awake as long as he can. What are you going to do now?”
“Wait till dawn, and see how he stands it. No, don't look at me. Keep your eyes on the house. He's too slippery to run chances with. It oughtn't to be so very long now. How about you—can you keep up all right?”