“There’s the answer!” gleefully uttered Hazelton, who had just handed the glass back to his chum.

The “answer” was a fluttering bit of white cloth tied to a rifle and hoisted over the bushes at the right of the bald knob.

“Who do you suppose is holding the white cloth?” chuckled Tom.

“I can’t guess,” Harry confessed.

“Our old and dangerous friend Peter,” Tom laughed.

“Bad Pete!”

“No; Scared Pete.”

There was a sudden twinkle in Hazelton’s eyes as he espied Dave Fulsbee’s rifle lying on the ground beside the machine gun.

In another instant Harry had that rifle and was back at Tom’s side.

Harry threw open the magazine, making sure that there were cartridges in the weapon.  Then he dropped to one knee, taking careful sight in the direction of the white flag.

“You idiot—–­what are you doing?” blazed Tom.

The fire from the camp had died out.  That from the assailants beyond had ceased at least thirty seconds earlier.

One sharp report broke the hush that followed.

“Who’s doing that work?  Stop it!” ordered Fulsbee, turning wrathfully.

“I’m through,” grinned Harry meekly.

“What do you mean by shooting at a flag of truce?” demanded the deputy sheriff angrily.

“I didn’t,” Harry argued, laying the rifle down on the ground.  “I sent one in with my compliments, to see whether the fellow with the white rag would get the trembles.  I guess he did, for the white rag has gone out of sight.”

“They may start the firing again,” uttered Dave Fulsbee.  “They’ll feel that you don’t respect their flag of truce.”

“I didn’t feel a heap of respect for the fellow that held up the white flag,” Hazelton admitted, with another grin.  “It was Bad Pete, and I wanted to see what his nerve was like when someone else was doing the shooting and he was the target.”

“Peter simply flopped and dropped his gun, Tom declared.

“Say,” muttered Harry, his face showing real concern, “I hope I didn’t hit him.”

“Did you aim at him?” demanded Tom.

“I did not.”

“Then there is some chance that Peter was hit,” Tom confessed.  “Harry, when you’re shooting at a friend, and in a purely hospitable way, always aim straight for him.  Then the poor fellow will have a good chance to get off with a whole skin!”

“Cut out that line of talk,” ordered Hazelton, his face growing red.  “Back in the old home days, Tom, you’ve seen me do some great shooting.”

“With the putty-blower—–­yes,” Tom admitted, with a chuckle.  “Say, wasn’t Old Dut Jones, of the Central Grammar, rough on boys who used putty-blowers in the schoolroom?”

“If Pete was hit, it wasn’t my shot that did it,” muttered Harry, growing redder still.  “I aimed for the centre of that white rag.  If we ever come across the rag we’ll find my bullet hole through it.  That was what I hit.”