Part 8 (2/2)

”Is it a bear?” Joe whispered. ”Gee, I wish they'd let you have a gun in the Park!”

Tom jumped into the tent and lit the lantern. By its dim rays, they saw what had made the clatter. Half their little stock of canned goods and other provisions had been knocked down off the shelf Joe had built.

”I know--porcupines!” Spider cried. ”Remember, Big Bertha told us to look out for 'em.”

They carried their provisions back into the tent, and went to sleep again.

Tom was the first up. Joe heard him muttering and exclaiming outside the tent, and crawled out to see what was the matter.

”Matter? Matter?” Spider shouted. ”Look at this--and this!”

He held up his sweater in one hand, and one of the scout axes in the other. One entire sleeve of the sweater was gone, and the handle of the axe was so chewed up that it was practically useless.

”Holy smoke, what did that?”

Before Tom could answer, there was a movement in the undergrowth, and both boys sprang toward it. There, sure enough, was the culprit--a fat porcupine, surprised by their quick descent, and backing away from them with every quill rigid and ready for business. Tom grabbed a heavy stick, and was about to hit it, when Joe stopped him.

”Wait a minute--I want to see it work,” he said. ”I want to see if they really throw their quills. You keep him here.”

Joe quickly hunted up a rotten stick, and gingerly poked it at the porcupine, which bit at the end viciously, and filled it full of quills, but he certainly didn't ”shoot” them. The stick had to touch them first before they came out.

”There, now you see the story's a fake,” Tom cried, ”so good-night, Pork,--you'll pay for my sweater, you beast, you!”

He brought his club down on the poor animal's head, and laid it out.

”I kind of hate to see him killed,” said Joe.

”I hate to kill animals myself, but we got to keep our sweaters and axes,” Tom answered. ”We'll make an Indian belt, or something, of the quills, and send it home to the kids.”

They were still talking about the porcupine as they got breakfast.

”Don't seem as though a woollen sweater sleeve and a wooden axe handle were exactly what you'd call nouris.h.i.+ng,” said Joe.

”I'd rather have bacon,” Tom laughed. ”He looks fat, too.”

As they were speaking, they heard steps in the woods, and a second later a tall, thin, tanned man in a khaki-colored uniform, with leather riding gaiters and a wide-brimmed felt hat, appeared in their little clearing.

The two scouts rose quickly, in surprise.

”h.e.l.lo, boys,” the man said, as his blue eyes took in them and every detail of the camp at a single piercing glance, ”goin' to have porcupine for breakfast?”

”He'll never have my sweater for breakfast again!” Tom replied.

The man laughed--or, rather, he smiled. It was really a kind of inside laugh, noiseless. Even his voice was low, so you had to listen sharply to hear what he was saying.

”They'll eat the clothes off your back if you let 'em,” said he.

<script>