“I—I’ll have you fellers put in prison for this!” growled the farmer. But he was far more subdued than they’d ever seen him, and he swung his long legs over the railing and strode to the gangway at the rear. “What you going to do with my gun?” he demanded.
“Never you mind about your gun,” said Chub. “You git!”
Mr. Ewing “got.”
“Throw off those ropes, fellows,” said Chub, “and bring them aboard.” He picked up the farmer’s gun, unloaded it, and tossed it onto the bank. “Nothing but birdshot, after all,” he scoffed as he glanced at the shells.
Mr. Ewing only grunted as he picked up his gun. Then,
“You’re a pretty cute lot, you are, but you wait until the next time, by gum!”
“There won’t be any next time, by gum,” laughed Chub.
Dick and Roy, keeping watchful glances on the farmer, brought the ropes aboard.
“Start her up,” said Chub to Dick. Then he handed his shot-gun to Roy. “See that he doesn’t try any tricks,” he said. “I’ll go up
