And while they thus dallied, dreaming of no danger, the four scouts might be advancing steadily, rod after rod, making use of a rude torch in order to see the trail, and all the while drawing nearer the crisis.
“You don’t think they’d be apt to hurt Bumpus, do you, Thad?” the war-like Step Hen asked, for the third time, as they continued to press on.
“Not seriously,” replied the scoutmaster. “We know they are bullies on the face of it, but really cowards at heart. If they hadn’t been that, d’ye suppose for one minute they would ever have bombarded us while we slept, as they thought, with great rocks, any one of which might have broken our arms or legs? And if they’ve got hold of Bumpus, just because he’s a scout, and our friend, they’d likely kick him around a lot, and make him knuckle down to them; but I hardly believe they’d hurt him badly. But no matter what they do, they’ve got to settle with Bumpus’ chums, sooner or later.”
CHAPTER XXI.
CAUGHT IN A TRAP.
“I’m glad, right glad to hear you say that, Thad,” declared Step Hen.
“Yes, I know how you feel,” the scoutmaster went on, “and it does you a lot of credit too, for scouts should stand by each other through thick and thin. But go slow, Step Hen, go slow. We don’t want to do any shooting, if it can be avoided; and then, remember, only pepper their legs. We belong to an organization that stands for peace every time, and no scout can be permitted to do any violence, unless it is to actually save his own life, or that of a chum.”
“Oh! I understand all that, Thad; make your mind easy,” declared Step Hen, jauntily. “What I’d like to do in case those curs have kicked and pounded poor old Bumpus, would be to just give ’em each forty whacks on the bare back with that bull whip we use on Mike and Molly, our pack mules, when they get too stubborn for anything.”
“Now, that ain’t a bad idea, Step Hen,” asserted Giraffe, nodding his head until, perched on such a long neck, it reminded Thad of a wooden manikin he had seen working as an advertisement in a shop window where razors were sold. “No, it’s a pretty good scheme—for you, Step Hen; but I can go you one better. We ought to just tar and feather such rascals, take their guns away, and ride ’em out of camp on a rail.”
“The last part could be done easy enough,” Step Hen declared; “but that other about the tar and feathers is too silly for anything.”
“Why is it, I’d just like to know?” demanded Giraffe. “It’s been done hundreds of times, down South, out West, and even up North.”