McTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda to reconnoitre.
"They're massing up at the cook-house," was his report. "And they've
no end of Sniders. My idea is to sneak around on the other side and
take them in flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come
along, Brown?"
Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had
leaped up five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the
rifles began to go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard
the pumping of Brown's and McTavish's Winchesters--all against a
background of demoniacal screeching and yelling.
"They've got them on the run," Harriwell remarked, as voices and
gunshots faded away in the distance.
Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter
reconnoitred.
"They've got dynamite," he said.
"Then let's charge them with dynamite," Harriwell proposed.
Thrusting half a dozen sticks each into their pockets and equipping
themselves with lighted cigars, they started for the door. And just
then it happened. They blamed McTavish for it afterward, and he
admitted that the charge had been a trifle excessive.
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