"Ready, Felix!" he whispered, in the softest of tones.
"Yep!" grunted the farm hand, at his elbow.
"One, two, three! Blaze away!"
With the last word Felix let go with his old musket, into which he must
have rammed a tremendous charge, for it made a report like unto the
crash of thunder, and came very near sending the owner flat on his back.
Immediately on the heels of this boom Andy pulled one of the triggers
of his double-barrel, so that the report seemed almost merged in with
that of the other weapon.
The four boys had jumped to their feet at the flash and report which
startled them when Felix fired. And as they turned to dash wildly away
and that second shot came, they became madly excited, evidently under
the full belief that they were being made targets for a whole battalion
of sharpshooters.
Two of them collided, and rolled over on the grass, kicking wildly and
scrambling to their feet again, to resume their flight toward the fence,
which doubtless seemed three times as distant as when they were creeping
toward the stranded aeroplane.
The whole thing was so ridiculous that Andy burst out laughing, and
could hardly hold his gun; seeing which the farm hand made bold to
snatch it out of his hands, and aiming directly at the place where the
fugitives were just then in the act of mounting the fence in their
panicky flight, he pulled the trigger.
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