"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.
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