"Father has it."
"Jimmy," I rejoined imploringly, "break open the case, load the rifle, open the door a wee bit, and fire at the beast through the veranda roof. The bullet will penetrate—I'm sure. He is crouching in a line with the ventilator, just short of the eave, so you'll know where to aim. I'll make it right with your father."
"What's the good?" half whimpered the boy. "I don't know how to use a rifle."
Here was a facer! What more was left? But my brain was busy, and I determined to die hard. Green as I was, shaken as I was, I resolved to try and shoot the tiger myself!
"Jimmy, do you think you could manage to pass me the rifle?"
"I will if I can; but how?"
"No use attempting the door—even while the brute is on the veranda roof; he'd hear you like a shot, and pounce down on you before you could wink. But could you reach the ventilator window from the inside? Don't be afraid; it is too small for him to get his head and shoulders through, so he can't touch you."
"But how am I to do it?"
"Can't you go hand-over-hand up the swing rope, with the rifle and belt slung on you?"
"Yes, I can," he answered readily.