“I got it! I got it!” he was shouting, clawing at his little repeating rifle in the endeavor to work the pump action, and render it serviceable again.
“Got what?” demanded Giraffe, running up.
“A deer!” replied the other.
“Yes, you have. Tell us where?” asked the tall scout, incredulously.
“Over back of them bushes. It was just going to jump when I let go. Guess it dropped in its tracks!” panted Step Hen.
Giraffe gave a mocking laugh.
“We’ll soon see if you put a flim-flam bullet into an old stump,” he remarked, derisively, limping forward: and immediately shouting: “Well, of all the world, if he didn’t get the nicest little buck you ever saw; and shot straight through the heart. No wonder he went down ker-flop. Step Hen, you’re going some. I’ll have to look out, or else you’ll be crowding at my heels.”
“Beat that snapshot if you can, Giraffe,” said the other, proudly looking down at his quarry.
CHAPTER XV.
THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER AGAIN.
That night the boys feasted.