“Mr. Goshawk nearly got you that time,” said a voice very near at hand. Tommy turned to find Chatterer peeping out from another crevice in the old wall. “It won’t be safe for us to show ourselves until he leaves,” continued Chatterer. “It’s getting so that an honest squirrel needs eyes in the back of his head to keep his skin whole, not to mention living out his natural life. Hello! here comes a boy, and that means more trouble. There’s one good thing about it, and that is he’ll frighten away that hawk.”
Tommy looked, and sure enough there was a boy, and in his hands was an air-rifle. Tommy didn’t know what it was, but Chatterer did.
“I wish that hawk would hurry up and fly so that we can run!” he sputtered. “The thing that boy carries throws things, and they hurt. It isn’t best to let him get too near when he has that with him. He seems to think it’s fun to hurt us. I’d just like to bite him once and see if he thought that was fun! There goes that hawk. Come on now, we’ve got to run for it!”
Chatterer led the way and Tommy followed. He was frightened, but there wasn’t that terror which had possessed him when Shadow the Weasel was after him. Something struck sharply against the wall just behind him. It frightened him into greater speed. Something struck just in front of him, and then something hit him so hard that just for a second he nearly lost his balance. It hurt dreadfully.
“Hurrah!” shouted the boy, “I hit him that time!” Then the boy started to run after them so as to get a closer shot.
“We’ll get up in the top of that big hemlock-tree and he won’t be able to see us,” panted Chatterer. “Did he hit you? That’s too bad. It might have been worse though. If he had had one of those things that make a big noise and smoke we might not either of us be here now.
“Boys are hateful things. I don’t see what fun they get out of frightening and hurting such little folks as you and me. They’re brutes! That’s what they are! When we get across that little open place, we can laugh at him. Come on now!”
Down from the end of the old wall Chatterer jumped and raced across to the foot of a big hemlock-tree, Tommy at his heels. Up the tree they ran and hid close to the trunk where the branches were thick. They could peer down and see the boy, but he couldn’t see them. He walked around the tree two or three times, and then shot up into the top to try to frighten the squirrels.
“Don’t move!” whispered Chatterer. “He doesn’t see us.”
Tommy obeyed, although he felt as if he must run. His heart seemed to jump every time a bullet spatted in among the branches. It was dreadful to sit there and do nothing while being shot at, and not know but that the very next minute one of those little lead shot would hit. Tommy knew just how it would hurt if it did hit.