“Send telegrams to the folks at home, telling them where we are, and wishing them good luck for the New Year.”
“Good!” exclaimed Fenn, “but don’t say anything about my sore arm. My folks might worry.”
This was agreed to, and then each lad wrote his own telegram, explaining briefly why he was not in the woods, the carnival forming a good reason for the change.
“This will be a good plan in case they have any word to send us,” remarked Ned. “A telegram will reach us at the hotel, but it never would at camp.”
Bart had taken his rifle with him when they left the hotel, and when his companions joked him about it, asking him if he expected to see a bear or a deer in the town, Bart replied:
“I want to take it to a gunmaker’s and get a screw set in a little deeper,” referring to one on the lock mechanism. “It works loose every once in a while, and now’s a good time to have it fixed, when I’m not likely to have a use for the rifle. I intend to do a lot of hunting when we get back to camp.”
As the chums strolled on, they saw, on every side, more evidences of the carnival spirit. On several side streets, as well as on the main ones, flags and bunting were in evidence, and colored electric lights were being strung. Linemen were high up on poles arranging extra wires, and others, below, were passing up the colored bulbs, or pliers, and other tools needed by their mates on the high poles. The boys watched this for some time, and then, at Bart’s suggestion, they strolled toward the centre of the village.
There a still busier scene was observed. There were a number of linemen on the tall poles, and, as the boys looked on, the current was turned into the hundreds of various-hued bulbs, to test them. It was early afternoon, and much yet remained to be done in order to get the decorations completed.
The lads found a gunsmith in his shop, not far from the intersection of the main streets, and he was soon at work on Bart’s rifle, talking as he worked. The boys told him of their experience in camp, and the necessity for their visit to town.
“Got scratched by a buck; eh?” remarked the old gunsmith as he gazed from under his bushy white eyebrows at the lads. “That happened to me once. Their horns seem to sort of poison a wound. I guess it’s because the critters rub their antlers up against all sorts of trees and bushes. They get poisonous juices on ’em.”