"It worked, Elmer, the trap went off! We've got him, I guess, all right! Great guns; just listen to the racket he's making, will you? Oh! hurry! hurry! before all the blood runs to his head!"
It was only his great impatience that made him imagine Elmer dallied; for to tell the truth, the scout leader emerged from that tent in double-quick time.
Both of them "scooted" for the spot where all that row was sounding; no other word would so fully describe the manner of their progress as well as Lil Artha's favorite expression.
They were not alone in this forward rush. From every tent came creeping figures, as the scouts crawled forth. And by degrees the screeching of the monkey was actually drowned in the greater clamor of boyish shouts.
It seemed almost as though Pandemonium must have broken loose in that camp of the Hickory Ridge Boy Scouts, for a dozen pair of sturdy young lungs can make considerable noise once they break loose.
It was a ridiculous spectacle that greeted them as they reached the store tent. The bent-over hickory sapling had sprung obediently erect as soon as the shooting of the trigger had released it from the crotch in which its apex had been gripped. And swaying back and forth, attempting all manner of high gymnastics, was a grotesque figure that stretched out its arms, and made frantic efforts to reach the body of the sapling, so as to climb up.
"Get the bag, Elmer!" cried Mark, the second that he arrived.
But already had the scout leader snatched that article up and prepared to clap it around the struggling monkey, taking care to avoid being caught by those waving hands.
"Quick! the rope!" he gasped, after he had made a forward movement, enclosing the gyrating body in the stout sack.
Mark knew what he was doing, and in a brief time, during which the rest of the boys stood around watching in wonder, the struggling monkey was secured.