“I c’n do it all right; I just know I can!”
Step Hen amused himself watching a sharp-eyed little striped chipmunk stealing some bits thrown aside from the camp meal. Time was when Step Hen might have been guilty of trying to hit such a fair mark with a club or a stone; but that was in the past. He would not have lifted a finger now to injure that innocent little creature for worlds; but sat there, deeply interested in observing every movement it made, just as if it were a pet.
Jim seemed to be himself again; at least when Thad looked toward him inquiringly, the guide nodded his head, and smiled. Evidently Jim had slept over his trouble, and decided that he was doing the right thing. For the sake of Little Lina he was ready to go right along, taking big chances of losing his precious ears; for only too well did he know that Old Cale was a man of his word; and that he must have meant everything he said to the messenger who bore the threat to Jim.
Davy was wild to develop the film upon which he had taken that snapshot picture on the preceding night; but there were a number of obstacles in the way of doing that. First of all, there were five other exposures on that roll, as yet untouched; and as a clinching argument, Davy had not bothered bringing a developing tank, or printing outfit along with him, fearing that they would take up too much room.
And so he would have to be content to wait until they reached some place where a photographer held forth, who would undertake to do the job, for a consideration.
Of course the picture of that breakfast would hardly be complete without Step Hen suddenly breaking forth in his customary strain:
“Where’s my–oh, here it is, on my head, of course! How queer that I should forget I put it there,” and he had to actually take his hat off, and look at it, as if hardly able to believe his eyes, and that for once his anticipated difficulty had been smoothed over so easily.
Davy joined in the general laugh that greeted this outbreak; then he walked gravely over, and insisted on feeling of Step Hen’s neck.
“Hey! what you up to, now, you Jones boy? Keep your paws off me!” exclaimed the object of this solicitude, suspiciously dodging.
“I only wanted to make sure that the connection was sound still,” retorted the other; “because some fine day, all of us expect you to lose your head.”