For a few seconds the two boys plied
their brooms desperately in that stifling atmosphere, accompanying each
long sweep and puff of dust out of the open door with the report of
explosions and loud HA'S! of defiance, until not only the store, but the
veranda was obscured with a cloud which the morning sun struggled vainly
to pierce. In the midst of this tumult and dusty confusion--happily
unheard and unsuspected in the secluded domestic interior of the
building--a shrill little voice arose from the road.
"Think you're mighty smart, don't ye?"
The two naval heroes stopped in their imaginary fury, and, as the dust
of conflict cleared away, recognized little Johnny Peters gazing at them
with mingled inquisitiveness and envy.
"Guess ye don't know what happened down the run last night," he
continued impatiently. "'Lige Curtis got killed, or killed hisself!
Blood all over the rock down thar. Seed it, myseff. Dad picked up his
six-shooter,--one barrel gone off. My dad was the first to find it out,
and he's bin to Squire Kerby tellin' him."
The two companions, albeit burning with curiosity, affected indifference
and pre-knowledge.
"Dad sez your father druv 'Lige outer the store lass night! Dad sez your
father's 'sponsible. Dad sez your father ez good ez killed him. Dad sez
the squire'll set the constable on your father. Yah!" But here the small
insulter incontinently fled, pursued by both the boys.
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