"And get shot," interposed Bob.
"If it's shoot, we'll get ours any minute. Say," went on the young man in absolutely conversational tones, "don't you see I'm mad?"
Bob looked and saw.
"Maybe you think shooting at me is one of my little niece's favourite summer-day stunts?" went on Elliott. "Well, uncle isn't used to it yet."
His tone was quiet, but his eyes burned and the muscles around his mouth were white.
"He's probably crazy, and he's armed," Bob pointed out. "For heaven's sake, go slow."
"I'm going to paddle his pantalettes, if he commands a gatling," stated Elliott.
But the mysterious visitor appeared no more that afternoon, and Elliott's resolutions had time to settle.
That night the young men turned in rather earlier than usual, as they were very tired. Bob immediately dropped into a black sleep. So deep was his slumber that it seemed to him he had just dropped off, when he was awakened by a cool hand placed across his forehead. He opened his eyes quietly, without alarm, to look full into the waning moon sailing high above. His first drowsy motion was one of astonishment, for the luminary had not arisen when he had turned in. The camp fire had fallen to a few faintly glowing coals. These perceptions came to him so gently that he would probably have dropped asleep again had not the touch on his forehead been repeated. Then he started broad awake to find himself staring at a silhouetted man leaning over him.
With a gesture of caution, the stranger motioned him to arise. Bob obeyed mechanically. The man bent toward him.