cucumber from his trousers and fired squarely at
his advancing enemy. That gentleman dodged, tripped upon a bit of
debris, and fell over backwards with a "plop." As Skinny advanced
incautiously to make sure of his victim, Red retired him with a glancing
shot on his upraised hand.

"You're a deader, you're a deader," he yelled as Mosher lifted his arm a
second time. "John hit you and the little Harrison kid hit you, and now
I did. That makes three times, and you're killed entirely."

"Shucks," grunted the disgusted corpse. "Just as I was beginning to have
some fun, too."

The victor busied himself in removing bits of flattened cucumbers from
his juice-soaked hip pockets. "Just wait until ma sees these pants," he
said ruefully. "Hey, John, I'm going after more ammunition."

The main conflict slackened. To lose a first lieutenant at the outset,
and to have two more members of your army near death, is no slight
matter. Silvey grew more and more disconcerted as the failure of his
offensive became apparent.

"Beat it," he yelled at last as a stray shot missed his shoulder by a
scant inch. The survivors retreated to the shelter of the boxes and
barrels, where they maintained a desultory fire.

The advantage of the impromptu fort began to make itself felt. Missile
after missile shot accurately out at the attackers and retaliation was
well nigh impossible. John withdrew his forces just out of range.

"We've got to do something," he said desperately. "Who's hit on our
side?"

Red pointed to a discolored nose and admitted "Twice." Perry Alford
indicated a moist, dark circle on his wash blouse and a sticky lock of
hair. Their leader looked grave.

"Silvey's hit twice, and Skinny's dead, so that leaves them only five.
But, Jiminy, Red, if you and Perry get hit, it's all up. And look where
they are. Maybe I can get 'em to come out."

He advanced a few paces toward the weathered heap of debris and broke
into a time-honored taunt:

Silvey, th' bilvey,
Th' rik-stick-stilvey!

To which the intrenched commander of the enemy replied,

Fletcher, oh, Fletcher,
Th' old fly catcher,

and exposed just enough of his person to wriggle ten brazen fingers from
the tip of his nose. John made a last, despairing attempt.

"'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid of getting hi-i-t! Ya-a-h!"

"Come on and hit me, then," came back the answer, which admitted of no
retort save action.

"We've got to chase 'em out someway." He