"He is like the flying Dutchman," cried Smith, a slight superstitious feeling beginning to creep over him.
"Give him a shot, then, and see if he cannot be brought down," Fred said.
I saw that Smith had no particular relish for the duty, but for fear that we should laugh at him he raised his gun and discharged one barrel.
The leaves flew as though the tree had been struck by a whirlwind. A small branch was cut off by the bullet and fell to the ground; but no sign of an enemy was manifest.
"It's no use," cried Smith, with a lengthened visage. "We might waste all our ammunition and the result would still be the same. It's no human being in that tree."
"We'll see," replied Fred, briefly, and he aimed his rifle near the top of the tree, and fired.
Not near as many leaves fell as at Smith's discharge, but the effect was more astonishing. The tree swayed back and forth as though some one was moving in its centre, and from amidst the dense foliage a voice exclaimed,—
"Blast yer hies, vot is yer doing?"
"Here, Smith," cried Fred, "there is a cockney countryman of yours up there."
"Come down," we roared.