“No,” says he; “it’s somethin’ more serious than that. Maybe these Japanese have feuds like the Chinamen. It might be that.”
“Yes,” says I, “and it might be that he’s been borrowin’ chickens from the neighbors without askin’ permission, and he’s sort of bein’ looked for on account of it.”
“Shucks!” says Mark, disgusted as could be. “You can see for yourself that Motu isn’t the chicken-stealin’ sort. There’s somethin’ all-fired interestin’ about him—you’ll see.”
“Hope so,” says I.
Then for a spell we didn’t talk any, but went on through the woods, being careful to keep under cover on account of hostile Indians. We didn’t sight any, but Mark saw considerable sign they’d left on their visits, and came to the conclusion that they used the lake quite a bit for one thing and another.
Pretty soon he began to sniff. He stopped and pointed his stubby nose first one way and then the other, and sniffed like all-git-out.
“Tryin’ to play a solo?” says I.
“Be still,” says he, “and smell.”
I started in sniffing as hard as I could. Both of us stood there and sniffed a duet. Must have sounded sort of funny.
“Well,” says I, “I calc’late I’ve sniffed enough for to-day.”