They had a peaceful night, with one exception. Along in the small hours Bluff was heard to give a sudden wild whoop:
“Get out, you cowardly beast!” he cried at the top of his voice. Of course there was considerable excitement.
Frank had been wise enough to bring a little vest-pocket type of electric torch with him, knowing how valuable such a contrivance may be at times. He instantly switched on the light; and, as he picked up his gun with one hand, he managed to turn the white glow upon the bunk occupied by Bluff.
The latter had apparently subsided, for no more shouts rang out. Frank discovered him lying there rubbing his eyes. He looked as though hardly knowing whether to burst out laughing or appear ashamed of having startled the others so.
“What’s all this row mean, Bluff?” demanded Frank sternly.
“Shucks! I guess I must have been dreaming, that’s all,” he was told.
“What nipped you? Because you acted as if it hurt,” Jerry asked.
“Why, you see,” explained Bluff, “I had come across that big Bill Nackerson, while roamin’ through the woods, and he managed to sneak my gun away when I wasn’t looking. Then what did he do but sic that mangy cur of his on me. I was kickin’ like everything at him. See how I sent my blanket out on the floor. All I wanted was one sound smack at his ugly jaws. I’m sorry I woke up so soon, because next time I’d have fetched him.”
“Well, go to sleep again, and let’s hope you dream of other things besides scrapping,” advised Jerry, as he proceeded to once more deposit his gun in a corner, and crawl under his blanket.
Bluff must have taken the advice to heart; at any rate his voice was not heard again until Frank pounded on the frying-pan to let the sleepers know it was time to creep out. Then each one in turn wanted to learn whether breakfast was ready.
As they ate they began to lay out plans for the day.
“Of course Bluff and Frank must try to get us some venison,” Will said; “and that’ll leave Jerry to assist me in camp. Besides, I want to find places to fix up my flashlight for the next night. If I can get a picture of some animal, taken by himself, it’ll please me a heap. What you know about the habits of these little creatures will help me out lots, Jerry.”
“I may be able to give a little advice, too, Will,” the latter remarked, as he helped himself to another flapjack; “because, you know, I went out with that gentleman who was stopping at our house late this fall. He had the flashlight habit about as bad as any one I’ve ever met.”
“Oh! you did mention it to me once, I remember,” said the other, evidently much pleased. “Then you may have picked up a few little wrinkles that will help me out in my game.”
“Leave that to me,” replied Jerry, swelling with importance. “I can put you wise to heaps of things. You see, I like to ask questions, and Mr. Mallon always gave me the straight answer.”
Breakfast was now about over, and the proposed hunt came next in order.
Frank never went off without making sure of a number of small but very important things. First of all he carried a compass. Next he made certain that he had an abundance of matches. After that ammunition was taken care of, and last of all enough food for a “snack.”
Frank was also a great hand for arranging a code of signals with his chums. This was an easy thing to do, because they had gone together so long now that they had a regular system that could be used as a means of conferring with one another, even when a considerable distance apart.
“Will’s mentioning that he wished we’d thought to fetch some syrup or honey along to go with the flapjacks,” Frank was saying, just before they broke away from camp, “makes me think that there are plenty of wild bees up here in Maine. Men hunt for their tree hives every season, and often find stacks of good honey, too.”
“Then, for goodness’ sake, fellows,” exclaimed Will, “please keep an eye out for any sign of a hive. Nothing would please me better than to have a pail of honey on hand. I’d just like to fill myself up with it, for once.”
“It’s a poor time of year to find a bee tree,” said Frank. “They usually look for a hive in summer, when the bees are flying and can be traced. Often the storehouse is away up at the top of a high tree. The weather is so cold now there wouldn’t be any young bees airing themselves in the sun.”
“Well, you never know,” ventured Jerry; “and, as you saunter along, just watch out for the signs. I understand bears often raid a hive. You might find empty combs lying on the ground under some tree.”
“Make up your mind we’ll not forget to keep an eye out,” Frank assured the camp guardians. “That reminds me, I promised to tell you a lot of interesting things about this country up here. I’ll do it to-night, if you mention it to me after supper.”
“I’ll remind you, sure thing,” returned Bluff eagerly, “because I understand that a whole army of people make some sort of a living out of the Maine woods, and I’ve always wanted to know how they could do it. Take my gun away, and I’d like as not starve to death here inside of a week.”
“All because you haven’t been brought up in Maine,” Frank told him, “and are as good as blind to the wonderful opportunities all around you. But, if you’re ready, Bluff, let’s be starting off.”
“Good luck to you!” cried Will, who was already engaged with his camera.
Bluff was soon tagging along at the heels of Frank, though occasionally he took a notion to push to the front. This was when he fancied that a particular patch of undergrowth looked promising.
Being in a humor to gather in a few of the numerous plump partridges that they knew were to be found in the timber, Bluff had his pump-gun loaded with shells containing moderate loads of powder and small shot. He thought that, with Frank at his side carrying a repeating rifle, there was no need of both being on the lookout for big game.
They walked on, apparently in an aimless fashion, but Frank knew just where he was going. One of his objects had been to avoid heading in the quarter where he had reason to believe that deserted trapper’s cabin was located, near the edge of the muskrat marsh. If, as they feared, it was now occupied by Bill Nackerson and his crew, Frank wanted to keep as far away from the place as he could.
Suddenly there came a humming sound, that caused Bluff to throw up his gun. With a quick discharge a flutter of feathers announced that he had made a hit.
“That’s a good start, Bluff,” Frank told him; “you got your bird, all right; but, hold on—don’t think of rushing over there. There were two others, and perhaps you don’t know a queer way partridges have of lighting on the lower limbs of trees after being flushed.”
“Say, that’s a fact, you did tell me that once, but I’d forgotten it,” Bluff candidly admitted. “And they use a dog to scare the birds up. That was what Nackerson had trained his cur to do, wasn’t it?”
“They bark and run about under the tree after the birds have taken to the limbs,” Frank continued; “and so the hunter can walk up close to pick his shot. It’s easy work, and when the partridges are thick up here no one need go hungry.”
“Well, all I’ve ever shot went off like a hurricane; and often I’ve had to let fly with my gun part way up to my shoulder. Do you see either of the others, Frank?”
“Yes, and, as luck will have it, they’ve lighted in such a way that they’re both in range. I believe you could drop two birds with one shot, Bluff.”
“I see ’em now,” muttered Bluff. “Watch my smoke.”
When he fired again both birds fell. Bluff looked as though half-ashamed of such easy work.
“Three already, eh? Nearly a chicken apiece, all around. Well, I might limit myself to just one more, and then call my part of the business off for to-day.”
He loaded himself down with the partridges, though Frank offered to carry one or more for him.
“You’ll need both hands for quick work, if we should happen to start a deer a little later on,” Bluff replied, giving Frank a cheery smile.
“Listen, there goes a gun!” said Frank, soon afterward.
“There’s another—yes, and a whole raft of them!” cried Bluff. “Of course it’s that crowd of Nackerson’s. I’m glad they’re pretty far away from here.”
“Yes, and we’ll make a detour, so as not to get any closer to them,” Frank said, as he changed their course.
“I hope this new ground will give us better luck,” Bluff went on.
They continued to push on until half a mile had been traversed.
It happened that Bluff was a little in advance of his chum, when, without the least warning, there was a sudden crash in the thicket. Then he saw something dun-colored spring away.
“Oh! Frank! look, there he goes skipping out; and it’s a three-pronged buck, at that!” he shouted.
Then, realizing that he might be interfering with the other’s aim, being in line with the fleeing deer, Bluff dropped flat to the ground.
Crack!
That was Frank’s rifle, as Bluff well knew.
“Hurrah; he’s down, Frank; you got him that time! No, there he’s on his feet again, as sure as anything. Oh, why didn’t I have buckshot shells in my gun? There! That time you did drop him for keeps! Bully! bully! bully!”
Bluff immediately got upon his feet, and, as well as his burden would admit, started to run toward the spot were he had last seen the buck go down.
Frank was following close at his heels, calling to him to go slow, because it sometimes happened that a wounded buck proved himself a dangerous antagonist.
It turned out, however, that there was nothing to fear. The deer was dead when they arrived beside him.
“See, here’s where your first bullet struck him, Frank—just back of the shoulder. He must have been swerving when you fired that shot Would that have killed him, even if you didn’t fire again?”
“In time it would,” the other assured him, “though I’ve known deer to run miles before dropping, after being hit in the body. That was a poor shot for me.”
“But, when a buck is humping himself to get away, it strikes me a fellow is doing pretty well to be able to hit him at all,” Bluff remarked.
“I’m not proud of it, I can tell you. I had a fair chance, too,” Frank continued. “The second shot was better, and finished him at once. Well, here’s your venison, Bluff. What are you going to do with it now?”
“He’s a whole lot bigger than any of the little deer we shot down in Florida, that’s sure,” Bluff observed, “and, as we must be some miles away from camp, excuse me from helping to lug him there. Suppose we cut up the carcass, Frank? You’re a clever hand at that sort of work. We could make up a pack of the best parts; and hang up some more so it’d be out of the reach of foxes and skunks, and the like.”
“Yes, and pick it up to-morrow, or another day, when perhaps luck fails us,” ventured the leader, as though the idea appealed to him. “I think that is the best plan, Bluff, so here goes.”
Accordingly he set aside his gun, after replacing the two spent cartridges so as to always have the full set of six in magazine and chamber. After that he got busy with his hunting knife.
Bluff hovered around, ready to assist when asked. Frank knew considerable about such things, for he proved very deft with his sharp blade.
The buck’s head was hung from a tree, high enough to keep any animal from reaching it.
“Of course,” Frank explained, after they had managed to do this, “if a hungry bobcat came along we couldn’t hope to prevent it from getting there; and a Canada lynx would think nothing of making a spring twice that high. But what we want most of all are the antlers; and this will save them for us.”
He also made one package of meat to take home, and another that they hung from a limb the same way the buck’s head had been.
“Now, are we ready to start for home?” asked Bluff, when all these things had been looked after.
“Yes, because we’ve gone far enough for one thing,” replied Frank; “and then, besides, we have all the game we need for the present.”
“Three birds is a poor number for our crowd,” the other protested. “Either somebody has to go without, or else they must be divided up.”
“Well, keep on the watch, and perhaps you may get a crack at another on the way back to camp,” Frank advised him.
“Guess I will, and thank you for telling me, Frank. It was hardly fair, though, for you to make all that venison up in just one pack. Why didn’t you fix it so I could tote some on my back?”
“I figured that three fat partridges would be about as much as any fellow cared to carry; and, if you should bag another, that’d make it complete. So forget it, and be on the watch.”
That was Frank’s way, and Bluff knew it was no use trying to make him change his plans. There was not a selfish bone in Frank Langdon’s body—even his worst enemy would admit that much.
Before ten minutes had passed the chance came whereby Bluff was enabled to fill out his assortment of partridges, so that every camper could have one.
“That was a fine shot, Bluff!” Frank told him, when he had seen how the spinning bird dropped like a stone the instant the gun was discharged.
“That’s nice of you to say, Frank; sometimes I do manage to get where I aim.”
They had to rest several times while on the way home. Finally the cabin near the bank of the partly frozen creek was reached. Jerry spied them coming, and at once set up a yell.
“Come out here, Will; hurry up!”
Immediately the other came flying into view. He carried his camera in his hand, and there was a startled expression on his face.
“It isn’t fair to give a fellow a scare like that, Jerry,” he said reproachfully. “I certainly thought a bear had you up a tree, and I hoped to get the picture. It would have been the prize of my collection, too. Now it turns out that it’s only Frank and Bluff coming home from their hunt.”
“Well, that ought to make a good scene for a picture, oughtn’t it?” Jerry demanded. “See what they’ve got with them, will you? A big pack that contains venison, I know, because that’s a deer-skin it’s wrapped in. And see Bluff fairly staggering under his load of game. Boys, we’re proud of you.”
“Now we can begin to live like real hunters,” Will remarked, after he had clicked his camera deftly, getting the proper light on the returned chums. “With partridge and venison hung up we’ll be in clover. All I’d like to see now would be a haunch of bear meat alongside.”
Of course they must have plenty of the fruits of the hunt for supper that night. The birds were immediately prepared and baked in an oven that Frank showed them how to make, using a hole dug in the ground.
“This way of baking game is an old hunter’s trick,” said Frank, while he was excavating the oven, “and has been known among Indians and others for nobody can tell how long. You see, it might be called the origin of the up-to-date ‘fireless cookers.’ It is made very hot, and then the food sealed in it so that the heat gradually does the business.”
The others knew something about the method, although they had possibly never been in a position to see the thing in operation. Frank burned a special kind of hard wood in his oven until he had a bed of glowing ashes. These he took out, and then the four partridges, plucked and ready for eating, were wrapped in some clean muslin Frank produced from his pack, and which had been previously dampened.
After that the oven was sealed up the best way they could. As the frost had not as yet penetrated more than an inch below the surface of the ground, digging had not been found unduly difficult, using a camp hatchet to hew the crust.
Hours later, when the oven was opened, it still retained an astonishing amount of the heat that had been sealed up in it. The birds they found cooked through and through.
“The very best way of preparing partridges that can be found, I think,” was the comment of Will, who had read several cook-books at home and had a jumble of their contents in his mind.
“It certainly has made these birds mighty tender and sweet,” confessed Jerry, as he pulled his prize apart with hardly any effort.
“Things cooked in this way are always made tender,” Frank told them. “A tough steak made ready for the table in a fireless cooker will be as nice as the most costly porterhouse is when broiled or fried. The only thing I object to is that it never seems to have that nice brown look, and the taste that I like most of all. It’s more after the style of a stew to me.”
As the four partridges were only skimpy “racks” when the boys tossed them aside, it can be readily inferred that all the campers enjoyed the feast abundantly. Indeed, they even had some of the venison as a side dish; this was cooked in the frying-pan after the usual manner.
“Might as well have enough game while about it,” Bluff remarked. “And let me say right here and now that this sort of thing tastes a heap finer when you’ve had the privilege of knocking over the game yourself; or it’s been done by the party you’re with.”
When finally they had eaten until no one could contain another bite, the boys, as was their habit, drew around the crackling fire, and started discussing their affairs, as well as other matters that came up.
Frank had warned Bluff that it might be just as well if they kept still about the series of shots they had heard, accompanied by faint shouts that might have stood for either triumph or excitement.
To his chagrin Jerry himself introduced the topic.
“While you were gone, fellows,” he went on to remark, “Will and I were prowling around near here to find a good place to set his flashlight trap camera to-night, when we heard a regular row some distance over there. Must have been as many as five or six shots in rapid succession, and some hollering, too.”
As the cat was now out of the bag, Frank felt there was no need of keeping secret the fact that they, too, had heard the series of shots.
“Yes, we caught it just after we’d got our partridges, and before we raised the buck,” he confessed; “I didn’t mean to say anything about it, because there seemed no need; but since you’re wise to the fact we can talk about it.”
“It must have been that Nackerson crowd, don’t you think?” asked Will.
“There can be no question about that,” Frank replied.
“They started a deer, and were peppering away at him in great shape, of course?” suggested Jerry.
“That sounds like the explanation,” he was told; “but then the same shooting would have followed the discovery of a lynx, or perhaps a black bear in a tree. All we can be sure about is that we want to fight shy of that country over there. We can hunt a different field; and I’m in hopes that by doing so we’ll miss running across those men all the time we’re up here.”
“Now, Frank, you remember you told us to remind you of something?” Jerry remarked when the conversation flagged.
“You mean about this wonderful woods country up in the State of Maine,” Frank went on, smiling as though the task he had been called on to shoulder pleased him, since he was a native of the State, and loved it dearly.
“Yes; something about the strange ways you said there were for men to make a living in the woods,” Bluff added.
“I’ve already spoken about the professional honey hunter,” began Frank, “who puts in a lot of his time summers roaming the woods in certain sections, always on the lookout for bees working in the blossoms or flowers.”
“Yes,” Will broke in, “and we know how they find the hives in dead limbs of trees, by trailing working bees. They catch a bee that’s loaded with honey, or sugar water supplied by the bee hunter, and attach a little white stuff to him. This they can see for a long distance as he makes a beeline for his home.”
“That’s right, because I watched a chap doing it once,” Bluff asserted. “He kept edging closer and closer with every bee he marked, till in the end he found the hive. I saw him take a heap of good honey out of that tree, and I got beautifully stung in the bargain.”
“Then there’s the man who gathers the crooked wood that ship carpenters use for making boats’ knees,” Frank continued, marking with his fingers as he spoke. “Nearly every small boat has to have just so many. They’re mighty hard to get, even after you’ve run across the right juniper or hackmatack, because it’s necessary that they should be of a certain shape.”
“That’s sure a queer occupation,” remarked Jerry.
“Of course, there are lots of trappers up here who work all winter,” Frank observed, “just as we know our old friend, Jesse Wilcox, does out where we live. But the furs they get here are pretty valuable, though not bringing quite as high a price as others taken up in Canada and the Northwest.”
“How’s that?” demanded Bluff.
“Stop and think a minute,” he was told, “and you’ll understand why it should be so. The colder the climate the more need of a heavy coat of fur. Now, take the common raccoon that is found all over the eastern section of our country. The animal down in the Gulf region grows a poor thin coat beside the one that has to stand a spell of winter weather up here.”
“Oh, I see now, plain enough!” Bluff exclaimed.
“Trust Nature to look out for her children,” remarked sentimental Will.
“She always does,” Frank told him seriously. “That’s why certain animals in the far North change their coats with the coming of winter. From gray or brown they take on a snow-white fur. That’s intended either to help them escape from their enemies in the midst of the snow, or else to assist them in creeping up on their food supply.”
“Yes,” broke in Jerry, “and when we were down at New Orleans and caught some saltwater fish for a change, didn’t they tell us that certain ground fish like the flounder is white underneath, where it doesn’t count, but mud-colored on top? That looks as though Nature wanted to protect him as he lay on the bottom of the shallow bayous and flooded places.”
“Then,” continued Frank, “there are the Indians, who act as guides to parties of sportsmen in the summer fishing and in the fall hunting. Their women make baskets, and lots of other pretty things, using colored grasses and porcupine quills, and sell them to the guests at the hotels in the State.”
“How about the spruce gum hunters, Frank?” Bluff asked.
“I’m coming to them right now,” replied the other. “That’s one of the most interesting employments in the Maine woods—gathering the gum of the spruce trees. Of course you know it’s used in making some kinds of chewing gum for the girls.”
“Yes, and some boys are just as bad about using the stuff,” Bluff went on, in a scornful tone. It happened that he himself had recently graduated from the ranks of chewers.
“These fellows keep on the move pretty much all the year,” Frank told them. “A gum hunter has to cover his field about once in so often. He must have pretty good eyes, or he couldn’t discover where the sticky mass hangs on the side of tall trees. Some of them use field-glasses in their work, and I don’t blame them much.”
“I should think that would help out considerably,” Will commented, doubtless remembering how difficult it often was for the unaccustomed eye to tell whether a certain protuberance far up on a tree trunk was a boll or a woodpecker flattened out at his hammering work.
“It’s a paying business, if only they can pick up enough gum,” Frank explained. “They get as high as a dollar and a half a pound for the stuff. As a rule they go in couples, because there is often need of help. And they work far away from civilization, so it must be lonely at times.”
“But that isn’t all, Frank, I take it?” queried Bluff.
“Why,” replied the other, “I’ve hardly begun to tell you about the scores of things that are going on up here in these wonderful woods, pretty much the year round. Perhaps you’ve never bothered your heads about finding out where all the hoop poles come from. They use millions of them every year, and the supply is inexhaustible, even if it does take time and trouble to gather it.”
“Then that’s one of the Maine woods’ industries, is it?” questioned Will.
“A big one,” Frank answered promptly. “You know that after certain trees like birch and ash are cut down, the roots throw up sprouts a-plenty.”
“Yes; I’ve seen regular little forests of them, many a time,” Bluff replied.
“Well, that’s where the harvest of the hoop pole man comes in,” Frank continued. “He follows the path where the loggers have gone a year or two before. Of course, his work makes it necessary for him to have a horse, so as to carry his day’s gathering to a central point, where it can be shipped.”
“Do they fetch the stuff out just as it’s cut?” asked Jerry.
“Not as a rule,” Frank answered. “At night the men sit by the fire, and spend the time in talking, while they use their shavers to take the bark off the poles. Later on these poles are split at the factories and used for barrels, kegs, and orange boxes.”
“The men who gather them don’t get rich at the job, I reckon,” Bluff commented, at a hazard, seeking still more information concerning this wonderful country which he had never dreamed could produce so many strange livelihoods.
“Oh, they get a few cents apiece for the poles,” said Frank, “but as they work steadily, and there are no labor agitators to call them out on strike, I guess they make it pay. Another strange business up here is getting ax-handles.”
“Gee whiz! doesn’t it beat the Dutch about that?” chuckled Bluff. “Like every other fellow, I’ve often wondered where they got all those fine ax-handles that come to our town. So here’s where they come from? I’m glad to know it.”
“A fair part of the supply comes from up around Maine,” Frank told him. “The woods roamer needs the best quality of ash for his business. He hunts over a large territory to find just what he wants. In the fall of the year the trees are dropped, and in a rough way each handle is shaped by a tool they call a ‘froe.’ After that they keep them underground for a time.”
“What’s that—bury the handles?” remarked Will wonderingly.
“Just to season the wood so it will not crack,” Frank explained. “Of course, after all this the finer work of finishing the ax helves has to be done at the factory. Another man who makes his living from the woods is the fellow who gathers the hemlock bark used by nearly all tanneries. Besides, all sorts of roots that bring in good money are being dug every year throughout Maine.”
“You mean wild ginseng roots, and golden seal, don’t you, Frank?” Will asked.
“Yes, and many others in the bargain. In lots of places boys make quite a little money finding these roots, and drying them. Then—let’s see, did you know that pearl hunting had become a regular business in some parts of Maine?”
“Now you must be joshing us, Frank,” Bluff remonstrated, “because pearls are found in oysters; and I’ve read that there are only a few places in the wide world where these pearl oysters grow plentifully enough to pay for working the banks.”
“You’re mistaken about that,” Will broke in. “I know fine pearls have been picked out of mussels in Missouri and Indiana. Is that what you mean, Frank?”
“Yes,” the other explained, “there’s been considerable hunting in the streams up here for mussels, or fresh water clams, that happened to have a pearl in the shell. While every hunter isn’t lucky enough to make a big find, still a man found one last summer near Moosehead Lake that sold for several hundred dollars.”
“And then there’s the shells; they say they’re worth something,” added Will, who apparently was posted on that subject at least.
“They sell those to factories where buttons and such things are made,” continued Frank. “If you’ve ever noticed the shell of a mussel, you’ve seen that the inside is mother-of-pearl and mighty fine.”
“Does that finish the list?” Jerry wanted to know.
“There are plenty of other things that bring in money to those who follow them up,” Frank told him; “but in every case it takes more or less hard work. Thousands of men are employed in logging during the winter. Then, ice is gathered in great quantities, to be shipped to Boston, and even to New York, when it’s warm weather. Protecting the game in the close season gives work to a good many men as wardens.”
“I never would have dreamed a single State could have so many ways of making a living in its woods,” murmured Will.
“Think of the hotel men,” Frank continued, “who live on the swarms of tourists and sportsmen. And the guides who get big pay for their work in season. There are the canoe-makers in Oldtown and other places; they seldom try to build the older style of birch-bark boats nowadays, even the Penobscot Indians preferring the smooth-sided canvas canoe, painted green, so the fish can hardly notice it above them in the water. There must be thousands of these boats built every year, and they find a ready market from Florida to the far West, and all over the country.”
“Well, you have certainly interested us by telling about these things,” declared Bluff. “Nobody but a fellow who had lived in Maine pretty much all his life would be apt to know so much about how people made their living up in these Big Woods.”
“I’ll have a heap more respect for the Maine pine woods after this,” admitted Jerry. “Up to now I kind of looked down on ’em, because there didn’t seem to be a great many whopping big trees, such as we see out our way in the forests. But, shucks! the more you travel the bigger your knowledge box grows.”
“That’s right,” added Bluff frankly.
“There are plenty of other things I could tell you,” continued Frank, “but they wouldn’t seem quite as interesting after what you’ve heard. And I’ve talked myself pretty hoarse by now, so I’d better close shop and quit.”
“I hope my flashlight trap works all right,” mused Will.
The fire felt so delightful that no one seemed in any hurry to crawl into his bunk. This was the life these boys enjoyed more than anything they could imagine. Will was perhaps the only one of the quartet who cared little for hunting; but it pleased him to be in the company of his chums, and, besides, his new hobby was causing him to look forward to a season of profitable employment.
He was fully determined not to let any opportunity pass whereby he might secure some remarkable pictures of outdoor life to enter in that competition which the railroad companies had inaugurated.
While they sat there, looking into the fire, each one engaged with his own thoughts, Frank was noticed to suddenly raise his head and listen.
“What was that sound, Frank?” demanded Bluff. “Ever since we spent that time out in the Rockies on that ranch I’ve believed I’d be able to know the howl of a wolf if ever I heard one again, and seems to me that was what came down on the wind just then.”
“But didn’t they tell us that wolves had been pretty much cleaned out of Maine in the last twenty years?” ventured Will, looking uneasy.
“Yes, that’s a fact,” Frank admitted; “but once in a while there seems to be a raid from Quebec Province, or New Brunswick, and from different sections reports come in of packs being seen. There’s a bounty on wolf scalps up here; but not much money is paid out for them—that is, for animals killed in a wild state.”
“In what other way could they be killed, Frank?” demanded Bluff, thinking that perhaps he had one on the other just then.
Frank, however, smiled at him, as he explained:
“It happened that they once discovered a wolf ranch in a secluded part of the State. A smart chap was actually breeding the animals for the sake of the skins and the bounty that the State allowed him. Of course, they put a stop to his business. But that reminds me I didn’t think to tell you about the fur farms we have up here.”
“That sounds interesting!” Jerry declared.
“Of course you mean where they raise all sorts of fur-bearing animals for the sake of their pelts?” Bluff suggested.
“Yes; and they say that good money is made at the business, too,” he was told. “One man I knew had a fox farm. He had managed to get hold of a few black foxes, and told me that if they bred true his everlasting fortune was made; because, as we know, the skin of a good black fox is worth all the way from five hundred to two thousand dollars.”
“How about skunks—I understand there are farms where they raise them by the thousand?” Bluff ventured, with an upturning of the nose.
“I’m told they pay good dividends,” Frank explained, “but can’t say from my own observation, because I’ve never dared to visit one. But you must remember that a polecat is only dangerous when frightened. They say that if you treat them gently they get to know you and are not to be feared any more than so many puppies.”
“Excuse me from trying to follow that occupation,” chuckled Jerry; “but I wonder if that really was a genuine wolf, or a snow owl hooting?”
“Let’s go outside and listen, because I want to know,” suggested Will, into whose eyes an eager glow had crept, as he remembered he had a camera trap baited with some fresh venison and that if there were hungry wolves around he stood a chance of obtaining a remarkable picture.
They clapped on caps and sweaters, and all went outside. The night was fairly dark, and still. Overhead a million stars shone and the soft breeze sighed itself to sleep among the pines.
“There it goes again!” exclaimed Bluff suddenly.
“And it sure is a wolf—eh, Frank?” Jerry cried.
“Oh, I hope so!” Will was heard to say, at which the others were surprised until Frank guessed the reason.
“You’re thinking of that flashlight trap, are you, Will, and hoping to catch bigger game than you set it for? Well, if any of those hungry chaps come smelling around in this direction I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. They can find a piece of fresh meat that’s half a mile away.”
“Just like those buzzards down in Florida could discover where there was any dead animal, and would come flying from every direction,” Bluff remarked.
They soon grew tired of staying out in the cold, and listening to the occasional mournful sound that all had decided came from the throat of a gray pilgrim from Canada.
Now and then it seemed closer; and Bluff even declared that he could distinguish several different grades of howls.
“Must be a pack of the rascals!” he ventured to say. “Who knows but some of us may run up against the bunch while we’re around here? I’d like nothing better, take it from me, than to knock over a few of the measly things. They’re a mean lot and without a single redeeming quality, like a fox.”
Once more returning to the warm cabin, they sat around until finally Frank drove them all to their bunks.
“I’ll never be able to get you out at a decent hour in the morning,” he told them, “if you keep on sitting here, blinking at the fire, and yawning every little while.”
If the wolves came closer to the cabin during the night, no one seemed to be aware of the fact. At least, their howling certainly did not keep a single boy from enjoying his customary sleep.
Will hurried out as soon as he was dressed. Frank knew what he meant to do, and stopped him long enough to advise him to carry his gun along.
“You never know what you may meet when you least expect it,” was the burden of his warning. “And when there’s an ugly bobcat ready to jump on your back or fight for the game that’s in your trap, you’ll wish you’d been wise enough to come prepared.”
“I guess you’re right about that,” Will admitted, as he returned for his weapon. He knew what wolves were like, and the possibility of meeting one in the big timber gave him a panicky feeling.
Shortly afterward he came hurrying in, breathless and excited. Although none of the others had heard so much as a shot, the first thing they thought was that Will must have run up against a thrilling adventure of some kind.
“Did anything tackle you?” demanded Jerry, showing immediate interest.
“Was it a wolf or a wildcat; and did you shoot him?” asked Bluff.
Frank said nothing. He saw how the other was carrying his camera under his arm, and could give a good guess as to the cause of his excitement.
“Nothing tackled me!” exclaimed the picture taker indignantly. “I was only going to tell you that the trap was sprung and my flashlight must have worked.”
“But of course you don’t know whether it was a muskrat, a fox, a mink, or perhaps a prowling ’coon that grabbed your bait,” Bluff commented.
“I’ll know after I’ve had a chance to develop the film,” he was told. “You know I have single ones that fit in frames, so they act like glass plates; only there’s no weight, and no danger of breaking them when you tumble.”
“Was the bait gone?” pursued Bluff.
“Yes, the string was broken across the middle; and it was a good strong cord,” Will informed him.
Frank saw Bluff nod his head as though pleased. He said nothing more, however, but as soon as breakfast had been disposed of they missed Bluff. He came in presently with a grin on his face.
“Guess you’re in luck to-day, Will,” he remarked carelessly.
“What makes you say that, Bluff?”
“Your visitor wasn’t a mink, nor yet a fisher, a fox, or a ’coon,” Bluff went on.
At that, Will began to show signs of excitement.
“Do you mean it was a wolf?” he demanded eagerly.
“Either that or a dog,” replied Bluff; and then seeing that it was only fair to explain further, he continued: “I found his trail as easy as falling off a log. Of course, I don’t pretend to be an authority on wolf tracks, because they look pretty much like a dog’s; but there were plenty around, so I figured there must have been a fair pack.”
“They were wolves, then, take it from me,” Frank asserted. “We only know of one dog in the woods besides a couple at Lumber Run Camp, and they keep them tied up most of the time.”
Will could not wait a minute longer. He had carried a little tank into the wilderness with him, by means of which it was possible to develop films in the daytime as well as by ruby light in a dark room.
When he reappeared later on there was a look on his face that announced his complete satisfaction with the results. The others did not bother asking him to show them, knowing that in good time, when his film had had a chance to dry, Will would surprise them with a blueprint.
Everybody found plenty to do, it seemed, that morning. The cold weather had kept on, and as there was a small pond not far away from the cabin they found that the ice would bear them.
Bluff and Jerry had managed to fetch their skates along, although Frank had attempted to dissuade them, on account of the extra weight and the fact that they could have all the skating they wanted at home on the river.
The two boys wanted to say they had tried Maine ice, so they fastened their skates and whirled around innumerable times, making the circuit of the little pond.
Frank had partly arranged with Jerry to go on another hunt after the midday meal. Will did not care to go, and Bluff had a sore heel from his shoe chafing on the previous occasion, so he concluded to rest a little.
After the skaters had returned to camp, they amused themselves with the ax for a spell, Frank and Will having done their part earlier in the day. It was good healthy labor; and, besides, they needed the wood in their business of keeping the fire burning on the hearth inside the cabin.
Will could be seen watching a printing frame which he had set in the sun. Every little while he would snatch it up to look, and then place it once more.
Finally he approached the others.
“Anything doing?” questioned Frank, smiling as he saw the other trying as hard as he could to look unconcerned.
“Oh, I just thought I’d like to get somebody’s opinion about what this beast is, that’s all,” remarked Will, suddenly flashing the blueprint.
“Whew! Doesn’t he look sassy, though!” exclaimed Jerry.
“It’s a wolf, all right, and as fine a picture as you could dream of getting!” Frank said.
“The flash has startled him, and he’s showing his teeth like anything!” was the verdict of Bluff. “Will, take my word for it, your wolf picture will win you the first prize they offered of a flashlight animal taken by himself!”
“Oh, do you think so, Bluff? It’s nice to hear you say that. So you like it, do you, Frank? Everything seemed to work like magic. Why, that trap is perfect, that’s what it is! A greenhorn photographer could get good results with that arrangement.”
“Now, don’t you believe it,” Jerry told him; “I’d make a mess of it, for one. You know every little wrinkle of the business, and this is what comes of it. That’s sure a dandy picture.”
They were all feeling unusually happy as they sat down to eat the midday meal. As a rule, this might be called a lunch; but with such ferocious appetites as all of them seemed to have developed since arriving in camp, it was necessary to do considerable cooking.
After all, no hunting party started out that afternoon. Jerry probably ate too heartily of the midday meal, for he complained of pains in his stomach and “guessed he had better lie around the rest of the day.”
He wanted Bluff and Frank to go, but the former was busy doctoring his heel, while Frank would not break the rule he had set and go alone.
“Besides,” Frank remarked, as he once more put his rifle away inside the cabin, and “hefted” the ax, as though meaning to have another spell with the firewood, “we’ve still plenty of that venison on hand. To-morrow will do just as well.”
So it was settled.
Of course, that did not mean they expected to be idle the remainder of the day, for none of them liked to do nothing. Jerry and Will were gone a little while after the former had recovered from his indisposition.
“We found a place where I think a fox passes along a trail,” Jerry announced, on their return, “and to-night Will means to try and take his picture. I should think a fox would make a good one, if only you get him as well as you did the wolf.”
“And I’m much obliged to you for helping me, Jerry,” said Will earnestly.
“Oh, that’s all right!” was the reply. “It’s beginning to get interesting; and I can see how a fellow could easily develop a hobby like this.”
“It means matching your wits against the shyness and cunning of these little animals,” said Will proudly; “and when you’ve succeeded in getting their pictures, in spite of everything, you feel that you’ve done something more than just aiming a gun and pulling a trigger.”
Bluff shrugged his shoulders. He had his own opinion about that; but of course Will could never understand the thrill that comes to the sportsman when he is tracking his quarry, and has to meet the cunning or ferocity that is the common heritage of all wild animals.
But Frank knew all about it, and met Bluff’s look with a smile and a nod.
“Every one to his taste, Bluff,” Frank said. “We can’t all of us expect to be crazy over taking pictures. And at the same time it would be queer if every man wanted to be out in the woods all the time with a gun on his shoulder, as we do. But I can understand how Will feels, and in a small way share his pleasure.”
“What was it you were telling us, Frank, about the mink that live along the bank of the creek just below the cabin?” asked Jerry.
“Only that you can find some interesting tracks there, and see how the little rascals travel about from one hole to another. If you care to step down now with me, we’ll look things over.”
“And perhaps I might get a good chance to take some of the tracks, so as to remember what sort of a print a mink makes,” observed Will, tucking his camera under his arm.
“Shall I step in and get my gun, Frank?” asked Bluff.
“If you want to, though we’re not going to be out of sight of the cabin at any time, I should think.”
Thus it came about that none of them carried any weapon. It could hardly be conceived that one would be required under any circumstances when within a stone’s throw of the home camp, and with all present.
Frank had such an interesting way of showing anything. He seemed to know all about the habits of the mink.
“They live along the banks of streams,” Frank said, as they prowled about, examining the various tracks, “and can swim and dive almost like an otter. They are not as destructive to game fish as the otter, though, I’ve been told. All those animals—badger, fisher, mink, and otter—are hunted for far and wide by trappers, and even weasels and muskrats have pelts that bring fair prices.”
“Why,” said Bluff, “I’ve read that even the common rat skin is being used now, because there’s a scarcity of furs. Moles have always been fine for gloves, I know.”
“That bunch of tracks seems plain enough to make a fine picture, with the sunlight shining on the place. Let me get it.” And Will proceeded to carry out his idea.
He had just “clicked” his shutter when Jerry said, in a low tone:
“Great governor! Frank, is that one of the wolves over yonder?”
Of course they all looked in the direction Jerry pointed, and it goes without saying that more than one of the boys felt nervous upon remembering that no one had brought a gun along.
Then Frank spoke up, and his voice, as well as his words, went a long way toward stilling their alarm.
“That’s no wolf, boys; I’d rather say it might be a dog. He seems to have come upon a hole in the ground, and has got some sort of animal cornered. Listen to him bark as he digs with his forepaws!”
“And see the dirt fly, will you, as well as the snow!” observed Bluff. “But say, Frank, seems to me we know that cur.”
“Yes, we’ve met him before,” Frank admitted.
“It’s Nackerson’s beast, then,” suggested Jerry.
“No doubt about it,” he was informed by Frank, who still watched the excited dog, digging and thrusting his nose as far down in the burrow as he could. “Better take care, Carlo, or you may get a nip from the claws or the teeth of your game!”
It seemed as though Frank must have been a prophet, for hardly had these words left his lips than the dog gave utterance to a howl, and started to run away as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Whee! That must have taken him square on the nose!” ejaculated Jerry.
“And didn’t he put his tail between his legs in a hurry, though?” Bluff asked. “That’s always a sign a dog is whipped. How about it. Frank? What’re you looking so serious about?”
“Only this,” came the reply: “where that dog is, there’s a chance of the men being, too.”
That caused them to exchange glances.
“And, sure enough,” Jerry hastily remarked, “there they come, breaking through the brush, all three loaded down with birds as though they’d been having sport somewhere, though none of us heard any firing this morning.”
“No use trying to make the cabin, is there, Frank? They happen to be between it and us,” Will observed, with a catch to his voice, although he would possibly have indignantly denied being frightened, had any one shown the temerity to accuse him.
It seemed as though Nackerson and his companions must have discovered the four outdoor chums almost as soon as they themselves were seen. At any rate, they were even then starting toward the boys.
“He looks pretty huffy, doesn’t he, Frank?” Will asked, in a troubled tone.
“Like as not he thinks we kicked his dog and sent him off howling,” ventured Bluff; which it turned out was exactly what the other did believe.
Frank did not like the situation. He would have felt relieved had some of them been in possession of weapons with which to stand up for their rights. Some men of ungovernable temper act first and do their thinking afterward.
The dog was trotting at the heels of his master, every now and then stopping to paw at his muzzle, which Frank could see at a glance was bleeding freely.
As the big man came up to the boys, possibly noting that none of them carried a gun, he was scowling.
“Which one of you cubs kicked my dog?” he growled. “I’ve got a good notion not to wait to find out, but start in and give you a licking all around, so as to be sure to strike the right one.”
Frank looked him straight in the eye. If his heart was thumping faster than usual, one never would have known it from the deliberate way in which he spoke. At the same time there was calm dignity in his manner, and he tried not to make his words seem like a defiance.
“I wouldn’t try anything like that, if I were you, Mr. Nackerson. We have had nothing to do with your dog getting hurt, and none of us either kicked him or threw a stone at him.”
“That’s one of your lies, youngster!” snarled the hunter.
“It is the simple truth!”
“But didn’t we hear him yelping like a crazy thing; and didn’t he come running to me straight from here? Tell me I haven’t got eyes to see? You’re going to pay dearly for that kick, understand me!”
“Let me tell you what happened,” continued Frank steadily, at the same time watching the man closely, for he feared the other might strike him.
“I wouldn’t believe anything you might tell me,” answered the other, with a sneer in his voice that caused Bluff to grit his teeth and wonder whether the stick he held in his hand would be heavy enough to use as a club, in case of necessity.
“Go on, boys,” urged one of the companions of Nackerson, who perhaps had a grain of common sense in his make-up, and realized that it was only fair they should allow the boys a hearing.
“We were down here looking after some mink that use this bank,” Frank continued. “You can see their tracks here and there all around. Our chum who has a camera was taking some pictures, when we discovered an animal close by which at first sight looked something like a wolf, for we heard wolves howling last night.”
Nackerson moved a trifle uneasily at the mention of wolves; it afterward turned out that once he had been treed by a pack of those animals, and came very near freezing to death during a long night’s vigil.
“Then we saw that it was a dog,” continued Frank. “He seemed to be trying to dig out some animal whose scent he had been following. All of a sudden the dog set up a screech, and went away on the jump, with his tail between his legs. A fierce old buck mink in that burrow had given him a nasty dig along his nose with his teeth or his claws.”
Nackerson sneered again, while his ugly face looked more scowling than ever.
“A likely yarn,” he said angrily.
“Take a look at your dog’s nose, and perhaps you’ll see the scratches there, because he’s bleeding now!” Bluff broke in, unable longer to refrain from having a hand in the game.
Nackerson showed no sign of bothering himself; but one of his cronies bent over the dog, which whined when he touched its lacerated muzzle.
“He’s been badly scratched, all right, Bill,” was the report.
“If you want any more proof,” Frank went on coolly, “take a look over by that bush yonder. That’s where we saw him digging first. You’ll likely find there’s a burrow, with the snow and dirt thrown out.”
“Yes,” added Bluff, “and if you look sharp, perhaps now you’ll discover a few specks of blood on the snow along the trail the dog made when he skipped out.”
No one took the trouble to find out. The two men with Nackerson must have been already convinced that the boys were not guilty. As for the big hunter, he did not wish to put himself in a place where he might have to admit that he had wronged them.
“Don’t believe a word of it, I tell you,” he persisted, as though bent on making trouble. “You’ve got a pretty slick tongue, youngster; but you can’t fool me. I cut my eye-teeth long ago.”
“I suppose you are a gentleman of considerable experience in the woods,” Frank observed, still hoping to conciliate the man, who he saw had been making a liberal use of his pocket flask, as usual. “But we have told you only the truth, and say again that your dog was not harmed by us.”
“Then there was that nasty business aboard the train,” continued Nackerson, “when you purposely upset that heavy pack on his back. Seems like you’ve taken a spite against my dog, and he never harmed you that I know of. I wanted to teach you cubs a lesson right then, but my friends held me back. Now you’ve gone and done another mean trick.”
Frank did not answer. He saw it would be useless, for the man was only working himself up to a pitch where in his rage he might attempt an attack. The boy, on the contrary, was wondering just what he and his chums might do, should they be actually set upon.
“Hold my gun, Whalen!” said the giant hunter, turning to one of the others. “Now don’t you dare say a word to me again about not laying a hand on these troublesome kids. I’ll teach ’em a lesson they won’t soon forget.”
Frank shut his jaws hard. Bluff edged up alongside, as though it was his earnest desire to be on the firing line if there was going to be trouble.
At that critical moment a voice was heard, saying:
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Bill Nackerson!”
Looking in the direction whence these words came, Frank saw with the liveliest satisfaction that the speaker was no other than Mr. Darrel, the lumberman.
A great load seemed lifted from Frank’s mind. With the coming of the lumberman, he had good reason to believe things would brighten up. For one thing, he was pleased to see that Mr. Darrel carried a rifle, which he was holding in a half-threatening manner as he advanced.
“Oh, here’s where we get busy right away!” Bluff was heard to mutter.
“Now things are going to look different,” Jerry added, with considerable satisfaction.
Frank looked deeper than the surface. He saw that the lumberman was alone.
“There are three of the sportsmen,” Frank told himself, “and each carries a gun. Mr. Darrel wouldn’t be able to manage the bunch if they started to get ugly. We ought to be able to lend a hand.”
He did not think it advisable to go toward the cabin himself, but that was no reason some one else might not make the attempt.
“Bluff!” he whispered, for it happened that the other was close by his elbow.
“What is it?”
“Try and make your way to the cabin without attracting their attention.”
“To get my gun?”
“Yes; and fetch mine along, too. Careful, now; and if you see them watching you stand still and appear innocent.”
Hardly had Frank spoken the last word before Bluff was in motion.
Other things chained Frank’s attention just then. Mr. Darrel had walked forward until he was now not more than thirty feet from the boys and Bill Nackerson’s crowd. It might be said that they formed a triangle, of which the lumberman was the apex, and the boys formed one of the base corners.
Frank knew that Mr. Darrel was acquainted with Nackerson. When they had told him about the trouble on the train, the lumberman related some differences he had once had with the sportsman, who had been coming to the Maine woods for a good many years.
The sight of Mr. Darrel had been anything but agreeable to the bully. When he saw, however, that the lumberman seemed to be unattended, the old look of anger came back to his face.
“Just keep your hands out of my business, Darrel,” he said threateningly. “This is no affair of yours, and I don’t want to have any trouble with you.”
“Well, that’s what you will have, Bill Nackerson,” replied the lumberman calmly, “if you go to bothering these boys, who are good friends of mine.”
“Oh, you don’t say!” sneered the other. Frank was of the opinion that it was Nackerson’s intention to egg the lumberman on until finally they might come to blows, when his superior weight and muscle would give him an easy victory, he thought.
“What’s all this I hear about your accusing them of hurting your dog?” demanded the newcomer, who may have heard only fragments of the talk as he was coming up.
“Look at the poor brute and see how his nose has been treated!” roared the bully, trying to work himself up into another passion.
“Well, it is hurt some, I can see,” replied Mr. Darrel, “but didn’t I hear Frank Langdon here explain that it was done by some animal the dog had tried to dig out of its burrow?”
“Yes, sir,” spoke up Jerry, eager to get in a word of explanation, “and over there’s where the dog was digging when first we noticed him. Then all at once he gave out a lot of yelps, and took to his heels. Frank said he had been nipped on the nose by the animal, which he thought must be a savage old mink. And that’s all any of us know about it.”
“You didn’t touch a hair of his dog, then?” asked the lumberman.
“Why, none of us was within thirty or forty feet of him at any time!” replied the indignant Jerry.
“How about throwing a stone at him?” continued Mr. Darrel, as though meaning to have a thorough understanding of the whole matter, once and for all.
“I give you my word, sir, not one of us even picked up a stone,” answered Jerry. “Of course, when we saw how funny the dog looked, running with his tail between his legs as he let out those queer yelps, we may have laughed. Anybody would have done that, Mr. Darrel.”
“And shouted in the bargain, too!” added Will.
“You hear what these lads say again, Nackerson?” resumed the owner of Lumber Run Camp, as he once more wheeled and faced the three sportsmen, with the dog cowering at their feet rubbing at his injured muzzle and whimpering.
“Oh, they gave us that song before; but we knew they were lying!” declared the other. “Boys never tell the truth. They’ll beat around the bush every time. I know just as sure as I’m standing here that they did something to my dog. On the train they tried to break his back by upsetting a heavy pack on him. And I’ve about made up my mind to show them they’re barking up the wrong tree if they think they can play their monkey-shines on Bill Nackerson.”
“I heard all about that incident of the smoker, Nackerson,” Mr. Darrel told him sternly, “and they assured me they had no hand in your dog’s hurt. He upset the pack on himself by squirming around and getting his rope caught in it.”
“Bah! Tell that to the marines!” snarled the other, now looking dangerously ugly, so that Frank felt a great relief when he discovered out of the tail of his eye that Bluff was slipping from the cabin door, and that he carried both guns.
Given half a minute more, and they would not feel they were an inferior force.
Fortunately neither of the men with the bully had noticed what Bluff was doing.
“Well,” said Mr. Darrel, “you don’t think that I’ll stand here and see you lay a finger on any one of these boys without protesting, do you?”
“I’d advise you to keep out of this mess, Mr. Darrel,” continued the other. “I’m not the man to be interfered with, once they get me riled up. And both of my friends here are going to stand back of me. So don’t you try to raise that gun of yours, or somebody will get hurt.”
“That’s so, Mr. Nackerson,” chimed in another voice just then, “and the first one to feel it will be you!”
Frank knew it was Bluff who made this assertion. He could see that the other had leaned one gun against a tree, and was leveling his own weapon straight at the intruder.
Neither of the other men made the slightest movement. They seemed to think that as Nackerson had brought all this trouble on them he should stand for it.
Frank started toward Bluff, for he wanted to get his hands on his own rifle.
“Hold on there, you young fool; that gun might go off!” exclaimed the sportsman, showing extreme nervousness; for he did not know what a reckless boy might be tempted to do.
“I expect it to, unless you clear out of this!” retorted Bluff, true to his name; for such a thing as actually firing was far from his thoughts, though as a last resort he would have been capable of it.
This seemed like adding insult to injury, in the eyes of the bully. It was bad enough to be baffled when bent upon carrying out his plan through brute strength, but to be ordered away by a mere boy galled him.
By now Frank had slipped behind Bluff, so as not to distract his attention, and snatched up his own rifle. Nackerson must have realized that the tide had changed and was now setting heavily against him.
“You’ll all be sorry for this, see if you ain’t!” he growled, for somehow that is always the threat of a defeated man.
“Well, I advise you to clear out while you have the chance, Nackerson,” the lumberman told him, perhaps more than a little pleased to see how ably the boys could look out for themselves.
“Are you going to stand back of me or not, Whalen?” snarled the big sportsman, not daring to make a hostile move himself while Bluff was holding that gun leveled at him.
The man he addressed gave a nervous little laugh.
“Well, we would, Bill,” he went on to say, “if we thought you had a clean bill; but it strikes us both that in this affair you’re away off your trolley. These boys didn’t have anything to do with the hurts of the dog, they say, and we can’t prove they did. So we’d best clear out.”
“Good for you, Whalen!” remarked Darrel. “And let me say right now, that if there’s any suspicious business attempted while you’re up here in this section of the Big Woods, you’re apt to get a pack of my lumberjacks hot on your trail. You’d better go slow about what you do. They’d as soon give you a coat of tar and feathers as not.”
Whalen did not make any answer. Apparently he and his companion felt ashamed of being caught in association with the bully.
Seeing that he was deserted by his friends, Nackerson realized that there was now nothing left for him to do but to give up. He was a hard loser, Frank saw, as he noted the muscles of the man’s face working.
“Oh, I’m going to clear out, Mr. Darrel,” he said, trying to speak contemptuously; “there are times when it’s policy to knuckle down. This is one of them, I reckon. But Bill Nackerson doesn’t throw up the sponge as easy as all that. Just wait. You or these young cubs here may be sorry for this.”
“Be careful how you make threats, Nackerson,” warned the lumberman. “They may be brought home to you later on, if anything does happen to these boys here.”
“Oh, I’m not threatening!” the other hastened to say. “That’s something I always try to keep from doing, and I want you to know it. But all the same, you may think of this time, and be sorry you rubbed it in so hard; that’s all.”
“Come along, Bill,” urged the man called Whalen, as though fearing that unless they got their boisterous companion moving he might bring matters to an open rupture yet.
“Sure, I’ll go with you, Cass Whalen, even if you have deserted a pal when he was up against it. I won’t forget that, either. I’ve got a long memory for such things, I have. And mark me, Mr. Darrel, I’ll often see this hour again as I think of how you insulted me. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
He wheeled in his tracks, gave a kick at his dog that started the poor beast to yelping again, and the party moved off, leaving the chums and Mr. Darrel exchanging looks of unbounded relief.