"I'll try him," I replied. And I poked the barrel of my pistol through
the crack, pretended to take a careful aim and fired.

"Did you get him?" Alf asked.

"Don't know; can't see very well."

"Well, if I find one of them he's gone," he replied, returning to his
own look-out. And a moment later the almost simultaneous discharge of
both barrels of his gun jarred the house. "Don't know whether I got him
or not," he said, as he drew back and began to reload, "for I couldn't
see very well, but I'll bet he thinks a hurricane came along through the
bushes. It's too dark now to see anything and all we can do is to wait."

"Wait for what?" I asked.

"Wait for them to try to break in. They'll try it after they have had a
few more pulls at the bottle, I think. Now let's keep perfectly quiet
and watch."

The moon had not yet risen and the woods stood about us like a black
wall. No wind was abroad, the air in the house was close, and I could
hear my own heart beating against the floor. There was scarcely any use
to look out now, for nothing could be seen, and I arose and sat with my
back against the wall, taking care to keep clear of the small opening
which I had made. It was so dark in the room that I could not see Alf,
but I could hear him, for softly he was humming a tune: "Hi, Bettie
Martin, tip-toe fine." For days he had been heavy with the melancholy of
his love, but now in this hour of danger his heart seemed to be light
and attuned to a rollicking air. I have known many a man to breathe a
delicious thrill in an atmosphere of peril, to feel a leap of the blood,
a gladness, but it was at a time of intense excitement, a sort of epic
joy; but how could a man, lying in the dark, waiting for he knew not
what--how could he put down a weighty care and take up a lightsome tune?

Down in the hollow a screech owl was crying, and his mate on the
hill-top replied to his call, while in the room near me was the whif of
a bat. And Alf was now so silent that I thought he must have fallen
asleep, but soon I heard him softly whistling: "Hi, Bettie Martin,
tip-tip-toe fine."

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," said I. "If you had brought a fiddle
we might have a dance."

I heard him titter as he wallowed on the floor. "This is fun," he said,
"the only real fun I've had since--I was going to say since the war, but
I was too young to go into society at that time."

"What do you think they are up to now, Alf?" I asked.

"Blamed if