Part 7 (1/2)

Toby volunteered to do this, although he had to handle the thing carefully so as not to get burned.

”I'll go after another bucket of water,” remarked Max; ”and I'd advise our practical joker here to jump out of those wet duds and get into some dry ones in a hurry.”

Bandy-legs, looking disgusted and rather silly, was beginning to s.h.i.+ver, as the door, which now stood open to ventilate the cabin, allowed the chilly air of approaching evening to enter.

”Guess I will,” he remarked; ”'cause I've got that wood to gather.”

”You bet you have,” declared Steve; ”we don't let you off from that job.

And when you've got your hand in, we'll expect you to take care of the fuel business right along, see?”

”See you in Guinea first,” muttered Bandy-legs, bristling up.

They could never coax him to tell what he had really intended doing at the time his treacherous heels slipped on the roof, and he fell down the big opening through which the smoke escaped.

Still, no one needed explanations. The fact of his lowering the old abandoned pelt, bundled up so as to look as much like a live bobcat as possible, spoke for itself.

Somehow or other this trip seemed to be particularly hard on practical jokers. Owen gravely remarked that all who were ordinarily given to playing pranks would take notice.

”Needn't look at me that way when you say that,” remarked Steve. ”I used to be a great hand for jokes, but never again. I've reformed, I have.”

”Y-y-yes, like f-f-fun you have,” scoffed Toby, who knew Steve ”like a book,” and had no faith in his professed change of heart.

After a while things looked comfortable again.

The fire burned cheerily on the hearth and Jim's kettle, hanging from an iron bar that could be let down, steamed and bubbled, and began sending out appetizing odors that even Steve sniffed with less resentment than he had antic.i.p.ated.

”What d'ye think of it now, Steve?” asked Uncle Jim.

”Huh, if you mean the smell, why, it ain't so very bad,” replied the boy.

”Fact is, makes me think of rabbit stew, some.”

”Beats any rabbit you ever ate; just wait,” prophesied the trapper, who knew that once Steve overcame his prejudice he would admit as much himself.

Bandy-legs had finished dressing, and as he lacked certain garments to complete his attire, the other boys temporarily helped him out. When his own were dry he would return the borrowed articles.

As though desirous of doing penance because of his wretched failure as a prank player, Bandy-legs did work, bringing wood to the outside of the cabin with unwonted zeal.

Indeed, the trapper finally had to stop him.

”Looks like you meant to swamp us with firewood, son,” he remarked, surveying the pile that was heaped up against the side of the cabin.

”Huh, thought I'd get enough while I was about it,” Bandy-legs replied.

”Well, you've done yourself proud, my boy, and I reckon I'd stop now.

We've got all we can use till to-morrow night. And I don't like too big a stack against the cabin wall. A spark from the chimney might set her going, and I'd hate to be burned out.”

The supper was a success.