“That’s a fine state of affairs,” he muttered to himself. “And the cartridge box in my satchel, too. I ought to be kicked for not looking at the pistol before we left the hotel.”
Frank was thoroughly put out, but this did no good, and, with something of a sigh, he restored the useless fire-arm to his pocket.
“I ought to have something,” he went on. “I wonder if I couldn’t cut a stick somewhere in the bushes.”
He arose once more, and getting out his pocket-knife proceeded to cut a sapling, which he quickly reduced to quite a respectable club having several hard knobs at one end.
“There, I reckon if a fellow got that on the head it would make him see stars,” thought Frank. “It isn’t as good as a loaded pistol, but it’s better than nothing.”
Quarter of an hour passed, and still he heard or saw nothing of Bob.
“He’s making slow work of it,” soliloquized the young man. “I presume he wants to make sure and not walk into any trap. Dear me, but this is lonely, and I half wish I was back at the hotel.”
Another quarter of an hour passed, and Frank arose to walk to a spot several yards away, and thus obtain a different view of the hay-stack, which was all of two hundred feet back in the meadow lot.
Scarcely had he walked a rod when a shadow crossed his shoulder.
He wheeled about to see what was there, but no one was in sight.