“I guess most of their firearms are rifles, not fowling-pieces.”
“Not more than half—I learned that from Mallory, when we played hockey. He said they had some shotguns just for hunting and camping out purposes.”
“Well, those chaps have a holiday to-day, the same as we have, so some of them may be up around Squirrel Island. But I’d rather not meet them,” and Dave’s face became serious.
“Humph! If those military academy fellows try to play any tricks on us I reckon we can give ’em as good as they send,” growled Phil.
“To be sure we can, Phil. But I’d rather keep out of trouble to-day and have some good, clean sport. I haven’t been hunting this season and I’m just itching to draw a bead on a fat bunny, or squirrel, or some partridges. You know, I used to go hunting in the woods around Crumville, when I was home.”
“Why, of course! Didn’t Roger and I go along once? But we didn’t get much that trip, although we did get into a lively row with Nat Poole.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. I wish——” And then Dave Porter came to a sudden silence.
“What is it, Dave?” and Phil looked closely at his chum.
“Oh, not much,” was the evasive answer.
“But I know something is worrying you,” insisted the shipowner’s son. “I’ve noticed it for several days, and Roger noticed it, too.”