"Come oot and show yourself, whoever ye be!" commanded the master, as he raised himself to his great height, with rifle in readiness and eyes staring towards that part of the bush where the chums stood. "Come forward this instant, or I'll bore as many holes in your body as there are farthings in a pound!"
In obedience to the gentle invitation, and not in the least nervous, now that they knew who the musicians were, the boys immediately made their appearance.
"There's no need to be afraid——" began Holden reassuringly, when he was interrupted by a huge guffaw of derision.
"Afraid! And what for shall Skipper Mackintosh be afraid? Unless it's mosquitoes, there's no man or beast in Canada that'll turn a hair on his hide." Then, seeing the lads as they approached into the firelight, the man immediately changed his tone of address as he also altered the threatening pose of his rifle. "What! A pair o' laddies?" he exclaimed in astonishment, and Bob replied—
"Neither of whom is particularly anxious to be riddled with a pound's worth of farthing bullets!"
But the words had barely passed the boy's lips before the rifle had been dropped to the ground and the man had sprung forward excitedly to grab a hand of each boy in his great fists.
"Faix! but this is a fine sight for sore eyes!" he exclaimed, as he vigorously pumped the arms up and down. "I've no' seen a white face (barring a trader's, and that was ower dirty to call it 'white') this twelvemonth past. I'm right glad to see you!"
"And I guess we're jolly glad to see you," returned Alf. "It's a treat, but—speaking for myself, I really want to use my hand again. It'll be jelly in a few more seconds."
"And mine too!" laughed Bob, who could not help wincing at the vigorous form of the welcome.
The Scotsman immediately released his severe grasp.