Nat flared up as though inclined to resent this imputation regarding his well-known courage. On second thought, however, he held his tongue. Perhaps he remembered that he had frankly admitted being frightened. And on the whole the sooner that matter was dropped the better.
Mr. Holwell, as well as the other two gentlemen, had, of course, taken a decided interest in all that passed. In this he found a good reason for adding to the high opinion he already had concerning Dick’s abilities. Any boy who could figure out an answer to such a baffling mystery deserved worlds of credit, and the minister was prouder of Dick than ever.
Indeed, Mr. Holwell was feeling more and more pleased every day, that he had decided to take a little vacation and spend it on Bass Island in camp with the boys of the Junior Department of the local Y. M. C. A. He dearly loved to study boy-nature, and watch the development of those faculties that in the years to come might carry the possessors on to fame or fortune.
Clint Babbett was coaxed to get his camera and take a photograph of the strange footprint. He had more or less trouble in arranging things to suit his ideas, but after several attempts declared that he believed he had succeeded, and, in time, when he had developed that film, they would be able to prove their claim by displaying an exact reproduction of the telltale track. Others who possessed cameras were not deterred from trying the same task.
“But I hope we don’t let it go at that, fellows,” the first photographer said, after completing his last effort.
“Not much,” remarked Andy Hale. “Some of the knockers down in Cliffwood wouldn’t believe a word of what we said unless we had better proof to show than just a picture of some marks on the ground. Why, they’d claim we’d made them in order to pull the wool over their eyes.”
Looks were exchanged, that spoke of hidden thoughts and grim resolutions. Peg Fosdick undoubtedly voiced the sentiments of many when he went on to remark seriously:
“One thing sure, boys, we must think up some way to kill this Jabberwock of the Bass Island woods. We could have the skin stuffed, and stood up in our room at the Y. M. C. A. building, you know. Every one who called would ask for the story of what happened up here in camp.”
Harry Bartlett glanced over at Mr. Holwell. He would have said something himself, only he seemed to guess that the minister would express his thoughts if given a chance.
“Wait a bit, boys,” said Mr. Holwell, gently. “Let’s consider this thing well before deciding to try to kill this poor animal. The rooms of a Y. M. C. A. building are hardly suitable for the exhibition of stuffed wild animals. The rules of the organization do not encourage the hunting instinct, only a laudable desire to build up the human body, so that a healthy mind may be better qualified to grasp the precious truths that are so frequently proclaimed within these walls. In fact, I can easily imagine several patrons of the association staring in wonder and displeasure upon discovering a stuffed gorilla standing guard in your department.”