"I ton't understand," stammered the German youth hopelessly.

"That's so, and you won't in a thousand years, Hans. But you are
the right sort, any way."

"I dink I blay me Indian mineselluf some tay," mused Hans. "Dot
vos lots of fun to make me tance, vosn't it? Vere you got dot
bistol?"

"Down in the barn. Look out, or it may go off," added Tom, as he
held out the weapons, thinking Hans would draw back in alarm.

Instead, however, the German boy took the pistol and of a sudden
pointed it at Tom's head.

"Now you tance!" he cried abruptly. "Tance, or I vos shoot you
full of holes!"

"Hi, Tom; he's got the best of you now!" cried Frank from behind
the bushes.

"You can't make me dance, Hans," returned Tom. "That old rusty
iron hasn't been loaded for years."

"It ton't vos no goot? No. Maybe you vos only fool me."

"Pull the trigger and see," answered Tom coolly.

He had scarcely spoken when Hans Mueller did as advised. A