"Yes, let Sam do it," cried the unseen chorus. The first speaker, unnecessarily, perhaps--for the motion had been carried almost unanimously--but possibly with the idea of convincing the one member of the party in whose bosom doubts might conceivably be harbored, went on to adduce reasons. "Sam bein' a coon," he argued, "ain't goin' to git hoit by no stick. Youse can't hoit a coon by soakin' him on de coco, can you, Sam?" John waited with some interest for the reply, but it did not come. Possibly Sam did not wish to generalize on insufficient experience. "We can but try," said John softly, turning the stick round in his fingers. A report like a cannon sounded in the passage below. It was merely a revolver shot, but in the confined space it was deafening. The bullet sang up into the sky. "Never hit me," said John cheerfully. The noise was succeeded by a shuffling of feet. John grasped his stick more firmly. This was evidently the real attack. The revolver shot had been a mere demonstration of artillery to cover the infantry's advance. Sure enough, the next moment a woolly head popped through the opening, and a pair of rolling eyes gleamed up at him. "Why, Sam!" he said cordially, "this is great. Now for our interesting experiment. My idea is that you _can_ hurt a coon's head with a stick if you hit it hard enough. Keep quite still. Now. What, are you coming up? Sam, I hate to do it, but--" A yell rang out. John's theory had been tested and proved correct. By this time the affair had begun to attract spectators. The noise of the revolver had proved a fine advertisement. The roof of the house next door began to fill up. Only a few of the occupants could get a clear view of the proceedings, for the chimney intervened. There was considerable speculation as to what was passing in the Three Points camp. John was the popular favorite. The early comers had seen his interview with Sam, and were relating it with gusto to their friends. Their attitude toward John was that of a group of men watching a dog at a rat hole. They looked to him to provide entertainment for them, but they realized that the first move must be with the attackers. They were fair-minded men, and they did not expect John to make any aggressive move. Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, was directed entirely at the dilatory Three Pointers. They hooted the Three Pointers. They urged them to go home and tuck themselves up in bed. The spectators were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them to see what should have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled. "G'wan away home, ye quitters!" roared one. A second member of the audience alluded to them as "stiffs." It was evident that the besieging army was beginning to grow a little unpopular. More action was needed if they were to retain the esteem of Broster Street. Suddenly there came another and a longer explosion from below, and more bullets wasted themselves on air. John sighed.