William felt as if the pistol in his hands was almost too heavy for his arms to lift. A terrible thumping came into his temples.
"Shoot! shoot!" said George, behind him, his voice sounding to himself as if it were some miles away.
There was a tremendous roar and a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Probably no weapon that had ever gone to the wars of the times of good Queen Anne had ever withstood such a charge before.
Backwards fell William, as if he had been kicked by a horse, and both boys rolled over down into the path, but there was a thrashing tearing sound at the foot of the pine-tree, and the strange creature was rolling over and over, clawing the air, and lashing about to right and left.
For some reason the old pistol had shot straight, and two of Aunt Clarissa's best pewter spoons, hammered into irregular lumps of metal, had done their work. After a few struggles, the beast lay still, and the boys recovered themselves quite slowly, for the report and fall had almost stunned them.
"I thought I was killed," was William's first speech.
"I didn't have much time to think," was the rejoinder. "S'death! you must have put in all the powder that we had."
"We hit something, anyhow. What was it?" said William, rubbing his head ruefully. His hands were blackened, and the old pistol, with the hammer broken and the pan blown out, lay on the ground a short distance off.
As the boys rose to their feet, they heard the sound of something coming stealthily down the path in their direction. In a moment a tall figure stood beside them.
It was Mr. Mason Hewes, and only a few rods away, seated in the bushes, well hidden from sight, were a dozen rough-looking men. It was they who had watched the young Frothinghams coming up the hill.