“Where thar’s one wolf thar’s agoin’ ter be more,” remarked the old Maine guide, with the air of one who knew what he was talking about.
“Huh! wolf he always hunt in pack, never by self,” observed Sebattis, drily.
“That adds a little spicy flavor to our being up here, then,” Thad went on to say, being not displeased; for if only he could have that magical little rifle of Step Hen’s in his hands, he cared not how many of the fierce brutes he might run across; for with its quick-shooting qualities, and the deadly nature of the bullets it used, he believed he could take care of all comers. Besides, if hard-pressed, it was always possible to take to a tree, where one would be safe from the cruel fangs of the animals.
When they went inside, and told what they had heard, the boys received the news with various shades of enthusiasm. Giraffe was really pleased, for he meant to do something bold on this trip that would forever establish his reputation as a mighty Nimrod; Step Hen fondled his rifle, and then stood it in the corner close to the spot where he had spread his blanket, as though he had a faint idea he might find need for it in the night; Davy Jones shrugged his shoulders, and hoped he would not happen to run across the pack when alone; and as for Bumpus, he deliberately changed his blanket, placing it on the further side of several others, away from that open door.
But Eli had been examining that same door, and was of the opinion that, with a little effort, it might be coaxed to shut. This he proceeded to accomplish, and with a success that won him a cheer from the timid Bumpus.
“Never did like to sleep in a draught,” muttered the fat scout; “and I’m glad the glass stayed in that window all these years.”
“That is queer, for a fact,” observed Thad. “But I reckon now it would never have held out if some of the fellows we have in Cranford had come along.”
“You hit it right about that, Thad,” agreed Step Hen. “Take that Ambrose Griffin and his cronies, Eli Bangs and Walt Hopkins, and they never could pass an empty house without shyin’ stones at the windows. I’ve heard a smash many a time, and seen one of them scootin’ away like hot cakes. Guess they like to hear the jingle of the broken glass; it must sound like music to some fellers.”
“What’s thet ye say ’bout Eli?” asked the old guide, pricking up his ears.
“Oh! we weren’t talking about you that time,” laughed Thad. “It happens that you’ve got a namesake down in the town where we live, who’s up to every trick there is, that he thinks will afford him some fun;” and as the guide expressed an interest in the matter, Thad detailed a few of the practical jokes which were believed to lie at the doors of the three bad boys of Cranford.