“See!” exclaimed Ned triumphantly. “He knew I was some relation to Davy Crockett. He didn’t exactly want to come down, but he had some business to attend to in another tree.”
“That’s an easy way of getting out of it,” remarked Bart, “but I’ll wager you would have missed worse than I did if you had shot.”
“Oh, come on and stop scrapping!” exclaimed Frank.
“We’re not scrapping,” retorted Ned. “Only I say I’m as good a shot as he is.”
“You can prove it, by shooting at a mark, when we get back to camp,” suggested Frank. “Just now we’re out hunting, not trying to decide a rifle match.”
But word seemed to have gone through the woods that three mighty boy hunters were abroad, and all the game appeared to have gone into hiding. Tramp as the chums did, for several miles, they got no further sight of anything worth shooting at.
“I guess we’ll have to be content with the ducks, and go back,” remarked Frank, after a somewhat long jaunt in silence. “Fenn may be lonesome waiting for us.”
“I know my stomach is lonesome for something to eat,” returned Bart. “The sooner some of these ducks are roasting, or stewing or cooking in whatever is the quickest way, the better I’ll like it.”
“All right, let’s head for camp,” agreed Ned, and, having picked out their trail, by the help of a compass they carried, they were soon journeying toward where their tent was set up.
“I hope Fenn is all right,” remarked Frank, as they trudged onward.