“Are you hurt, Harry? Did he buck you?” questioned Jack, quickly.
“No, I’m all right,” panted Harry. “And thanks to you for killing him.”
“You wounded him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, his back is full of buckshot. But it only made him ugly. What of that deer that was wounded first?”
“Andy, Boxy and Pickles took care of him. This makes three out of four, and that is not bad.”
Getting some branches, the boys made a rough drag and placed the buck upon it. Luckily, there was a little creek running through the middle of the valley, and on the ice covering they slid their game down to the spot where the sport had first begun.
The others were waiting for them, and they set up a yell of delight when they saw a third deer had been brought down.
“Dis am sumfing to be proud ob, an’ no mistake,” observed Pickles. “My dad won’t most beliebe me when I dun tell him ob it.”
“We’ll take along the horns and skins, and that will certify to our story,” said Jack. “The question is, what’s to be done with all of this meat?”
“It’s a pity, but most of it will have to be left behind, I suppose,” returned Harry. “Let us carry as much of the choice pieces as we can.”