“Evidently Hiram Skeetles got him to do it,” said Joel Runnell. “Remember, Skeetles claims to own the island.”
“But he doesn’t own it,” answered Joe, warmly. “And I, for one, shan’t budge.”
“Nor I,” added Harry.
“So say we all!” sang out Fred. “Just let Marcy or old Skeetles show himself, and we’ll give him a piece of our mind, eh, fellows?”
“Nobody ever tried to stop my hunting here before,” said Joel Runnell. “As I told you before, so far as I know, the island is under the care of Sheriff Clowes. As to who owns the island, that is for the courts to decide.”
“Then we’ll quit on notice from the sheriff, and not before,” said Joe.
“It’s a wonder Dan Marcy didn’t steal something,” put in Harry. “I don’t think he’d be above doing such a thing.”
“Oh, don’t paint him any blacker than he is, Harry,” returned his brother; nevertheless, all looked around the lodge with interest, to make sure that nothing was missing.
“I suppose Marcy has gone to old Skeetles to report,” said Joel Runnell, later on, while they were broiling a choice cut of deer meat. “And if that’s so we’ll hear from him again before long.”
The hunt had given everybody a good appetite, and they sat over the well-cooked venison a long time, praising the meal and talking over the prospects for more sport. There was a good deal of enthusiasm, and, in the midst of this, Marcy and Hiram Skeetles were for the time being forgotten.