"Killed nothin'!" Bill told him. "Didn't you hear her holler?"
"She's running, too," said Benny. "Killed folks don't run, especially girls."
We could hear a crashing through the bushes beyond, and knew that what Benny said was true.
"Let's sneak back and get our arrows, anyhow," said Skinny, when the noise had stopped.
So we crept back again, ready to run if any one should come, but there was nobody in sight. One arrow was lying on the ground where the girl had been standing when we took her for a bear. It was Skinny's; we could tell by the way it was painted.
It made him real chesty, after he had found out that we had not killed anybody.
"Didn't I tell you, Bill," said he, "that I'd show you whether I could hit a bear or not? It must have struck a button or something, or whoever it was would have bit the dust, and don't you forget it."
While we were standing there talking about it, a man burst through the bushes, followed by a girl, about eighteen years old, I guess.
"Are these your Injuns?" he asked, before we had time to run. Then he burst out laughing in such a way that we were not afraid to stay.
In a minute we had found out all about it. They were fern gatherers and Benny had taken them for bears. A lot of people go up on the mountain in August, picking what they call Boston ferns to sell to florists. They put them in cold storage and keep them a long time. There is a crazy little railroad at the foot of the mountain, on the east side, that carries whole train loads of those ferns to Hoosac Tunnel station, and afterward they are shipped all over the country to be put in bouquets.