“No, I didn’t steel ’em nuther,” shouted Matt.
“Or, rather, that one of your boys did,” continued Roy, while Joe hung on to the side of the skiff and looked over it at the angry party on the shore. “I am sure we don’t want them.”
“Then bring ’em ashore like we told you,” screamed the old woman. “You’re thieves yourselves if you keep ’em.”
“Do you see any thing green about us?” demanded Arthur. “I’ll tell you what we will do: If you will stay there on the bank in plain sight until we get our boat raised, we will go up the creek and leave the potatoes and bacon opposite the mouth of the trout brook, so that you can get them after we have gone away. What are you going to do with those sticks?” he added, addressing himself to the two boys who just then came out of the bushes with a heavy club in each hand.
“We’re goin’ to knock you out o’ that boat if you don’t fetch that there grub of our’n ashore without no more foolin’,” answered Jake, in threatening tones. “It’s our’n an’ we’re goin’ to have it back.”
“That’s the idee, Jakey,” exclaimed the old woman, approvingly. “Knock the young ’ristocrats out o’ their boat. I reckon that’ll bring ’em to time.”
“If you try that, I’ll lay some of you out flatter than so many pancakes,” returned Roy, defiantly; and as he spoke he tore open the bag containing the potatoes. Catching up one in each hand, his example being promptly followed by Arthur Hastings, he arose to his feet just in time to dodge one of Jake’s clubs, which came whirling through the air straight for his head. Before the missile had struck the water on the other side of the skiff, Roy launched one of his potatoes at the aggressor. Like most left-handed fellows Roy could throw like lightning; and the potato, flying true to its aim and with terrific force, struck Jake fairly in the pit of the stomach, and doubled him up like a jack-knife.
“That’s the idee, Jakey,” yelled Joe Wayring, who was delighted with the accuracy of his chum’s shot. “Knock them young ’ristocrats out o’ their boat. I reckon that’ll bring ’em to time. Throw another, Jakey.”
But Jake was in no condition to throw another. It was a long time before he could get his breath; and when he did get it, the howls with which he awoke the echoes of the surrounding woods were wonderful to hear. The squatter’s family, believing that Jake had been mortally wounded, gathered about him with expressions of sympathy, and Joe Wayring took advantage of the confusion to climb into the skiff and put on his clothes. If there was going to be a fight he wanted to take a hand in it.
