“The futprint is the biggest iver made; the elephant is the biggest animal that roams these woods; therefore the track is that of one of them craturs.”
“Your logic is ingenious, Michael, but you do not produce the elephant.”
“I’ve an idea that he’s hiding somewhere in the branches of the trees,” was the imperturbable reply of the Irish youth, who glanced up among the nearest limbs as if he expected to see the giant quadruped lurking there.
“Mike,” interposed Scout Master Hall, “the elephant is not found in this country; you have made a mistake.”
“Why, there isn’t a traveling circus that doesn’t have a half dozen more or less of ’em; what’s to prevint one from bidding good bye to his frinds and starting out to have a shindy with a lot of Boy Scouts?”
By this time, it dawned upon the two men that the whole thing was a jest on the part of Mike. Convinced that neither he nor his companions could find the trail for which they had been searching, he yielded to his waggish propensity, as fully aware of the absurdity of his words as were those to whom he submitted his theory.
The fact that the three persons by the boulder were discussing some interesting question had been observed by the other lads, who began strolling in that direction. Uncle Elk and Mr. Hall kept their seats and looked smilingly up into the expectant faces.
“I am afraid,” said the Instructor sighing as if with disappointment, “that you have not been successful in your search.”
The unanimous nodding of heads answered his query.
“Shall I tell you why you failed?”