“We’ll put a bent stick across the top,” said Jack. “That will keep it from tipping only so far.”
“We want to make sure that nothing is forgotten,” said Harry. “It would be fine to get miles from any house, and then find that you had forgotten something you wanted the worst way.”
“I’ve got the list, and I’ve checked off the articles,” returned Andy. “I’ve even got the forks and knives and spoons down.”
“Have you got a big carving-knife? We can’t do without that.”
“By gracious! I never thought of that!” exclaimed Andy, his face reddening. “We wouldn’t be able to cut up a bear even if we shot him.”
“I’ve brought a hunting-knife,” put in Boxy. “See here—a regular Mohawk scalping steel. Wah! wah! Me take white man’s scalp and dry him hair for smoking tobac!” he went on, dancing around and flourishing the knife in true Indian fashion—according to a dime novel he had once had the patience to wade through.
“Beware of Bloody Ben of Digger’s Gulch!” shrieked Andy, in reply, and he caught up his gun. “He is out to avenge the murder of his twenty-fo-o-ur bro-o-thers!”
“Here, Andy, don’t point that gun at any one,” put in Jack, sternly.
“It isn’t loaded, Jack.”
“Never mind, put it down. There are too many accidents of that sort, where somebody didn’t think the gun was loaded.”