“Say.  I guess you did for that fellow, all right!” exclaimed Ned.

“It looks so,” admitted Tom, with a note of pride in his voice.  “Now we’ll try another test.”

As he laid aside his rifle in order to help Mr. Jackson shift the steel plate there was a series of yells outside the shed.

“What’s that?” asked Tom, in some alarm.

“Sounds like some one calling,” answered Ned.

“It is,” agreed Mr. Jackson.  “Perhaps Eradicate’s mule has gotten loose.  I guess we’d better—­”

He did not finish, for the shouts increased in volume, and Tom and Ned could hear some one yelling: 

“I’ll have the law on you for this!  I’ll have you arrested, Tom Swift!  What do you mean by trying to kill me?  Where are you?  Don’t try to hide away, now.  You were trying to shoot me, and I’m not going to have it!”

Some one pounded on the door of the shed.

“It’s Barney Moker!” exclaimed Tom.  “I wonder what can have happened?”

CHAPTER III

A DIFFICULT TEST

Tom Swift opened the door of the improvised rifle gallery and looked out.  By the light of a full moon, which shone down from a cloudless sky, he saw a man standing at the portal.  The man’s face was distorted with rage, and he shook his fist at the young inventor.

“What do you mean by shooting at me?” he demanded.  “What do you mean, I say?  The idea of scaring honest folks out of their wits, and making ’em think the end of the world has come!  What do you mean by it?  Why don’t you answer me?  I say, Tom Swift, why don’t you answer me?”

“Because you don’t give me a chance, Mr. Moker,” replied our hero.

“I want to know why you shot at me?  I demand to know!” and Mr. Moker, who was a sort of miserly town character, living all alone in a small house, just beyond Tom’s home, again shook his fist almost in the lad’s face.  “Why don’t you tell me?  Why don’t you tell me?” he shouted.

“I will, if you give me a chance!” fairly exploded Tom.  “If you can be cool for five minutes, and come inside and tell me what happened I’ll be glad to answer any of your questions, Mr. Moker.  I didn’t shoot at you.”

“Yes, you did!  You tried to shoot a hole through me!”

“Tell me about it?” suggested Tom, as the excited man calmed down somewhat.  “Are you hurt?”

“No, but it isn’t your fault that I’m not.  You tried hard enough to hurt me.  Here I am, sitting at my table reading, and, all at once something goes through the side of the house, whizzes past my ear, makes my hair fairly stand up on end, and goes outside the other side of the house.  What kind of bullets do you use, Tom Swift? that’s what I want to know.  They went through the side of my house, and never left a mark.  I demand to know what kind they are.”

“I’ll tell you, if you’ll only give me a chance,” went on Tom wearily.  “How do you know it was me shooting?”