“Humph! What do they come up here in the woods for? Well, here’s one person who isn’t going to overlook a chance if he happens to see one!”
“But—but—— Why, Sax McNulty or any of the rest of the councilors would sure bawl you out if they found you with a gun! It’s against the camp rules!”
“Bother the old rules! Good heavens, McNulty may change his mind pretty quick if I present him with a nice bag of partridge ready for Tent One to eat for supper.” With deliberate casualness, Dirk slung his gun-case over his shoulder, unearthed from a suitcase a large box of chocolate cake as provisions, and paused at the door of the tent. “Come along if you like, Fellowes.”
“No—no thanks,” blurted Joey. “You better report to the Chief before you go.”
“I won’t be long,” said Dirk carelessly. “Well, then, ta-ta! If you’ve got most of my things stowed away by the time I come back, I’ll slip you a dollar or two.”
With these generous words, Dirk waved an easy farewell, and strode off through the trees, taking care to make a wide circle about the lodge, where some fussy councilor might see him and keep him from his purpose. His plan was simple. He wanted to make Brick Ryan and the rest of the campers realize what a fine fellow was now in their midst. If he could casually stroll into the tent with a dozen partridge in one hand and his shiny new rifle in the other, they would see at a glance that here was a comrade to be reckoned with! He conjured up pleasant pictures of their surprise and admiration, himself the center of the group.
Still lost in these happy visions, he crossed a sunny meadow and picked his way over the dusty, rutted country road that led to camp. Here he plunged into thick woods, making straight up the mountainside. It was cool in the leafy forest, and he would have been very well contented save that a swarm of gnats hovered over his hatless head in a buzzing cloud, following wherever he went. His coat was too warm, but he did not want to carry it as his hands were already full, and he wished to be free in case he located the desired covey of partridge.
Ahead lay a flat, marshy stretch of ground, where clumps of grass and rotting tree-limbs formed a half-submerged, muddy mass. There was no path going around, and Dirk, balancing his burdens dangerously, jumped from one solid-looking tuft to another. More than once he slipped on the rotting stuff, and floundered ankle-deep in slimy water. Long before he reached the other side, he regretted that he had not changed his city flannels for togs more suited to mountain work. His low sport shoes were caked with ooze and half full of water; his erstwhile spotless white flannels were muddied, streaked with green scum, and a triangular tear on one leg showed where he had come up against a sharp branch.
Ruefully he sank to a seat on a decayed oak-trunk and unloosened his wilted linen collar. He would have liked a drink, but he knew that the stagnant pools at his feet were unhealthy, and he settled back, inspected his glistening rifle to see that the magazine was full of .22 caliber cartridges, and then slowly began munching the cake he had brought with him.
He had barely eaten half of it, however, when he leaped hastily from his seat with a cry. One arm was afire, beneath the sleeve, with a thousand prickling stings! A simmering stream of large black ants that infested the rotting wood—no doubt attracted by the chance of refreshment in the shape of sweet crumbs of cake—was flowing over his hand and arm, and even beneath the collar of his shirt. In a painful frenzy he dropped the cake and began brushing off the stinging insects, stripping off his coat and shirt. It was several minutes before he could fight free of the crawling horde, and then, grabbing his things, he rushed off up the hillside away from the treacherous lower ground. Even then, he was reminded now and again of his misadventure by a red-hot sting in some part of his tender skin beneath his clothing.