“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed Tom Wagstaff, dropping down on a log and panting hard; “this is like a good many other things which don’t give half as much fun as we expect. Bob, where’s that flask?”
The others were also glad to sit down for a brief rest, and Bob lost no time in producing the required article, which was applied to the lips of each in turn with the bottom pointed toward the sky, and a part of the fiery contents gurgled down their throats.
“Of course it’s tiresome, because it’s all the way up up-hill,” said Bob, who took of his hat and fanned his flushed face; “but we’ll soon get as high as we want to go, and then it’ll be plain sailing.”
“It’s easy enough to come down-hill, provided it aint too steep.”
“If it gets that way, all a fellow has to do is to lie down and roll,” said Bob; “but I’m hopeful that Hero will start some animal before we go much further.”
The three listened, but though the hound was absent nothing was heard from him. He evidently was making a “still hunt,” but the moment he struck a scent he was sure to let the young hunters know.
Whether or not they did their part, there could be no doubt that the canine would perform his in a creditable manner, for he had been trained by competent hands that fully understood how to teach so sagacious an animal.
Having rested themselves, the party pushed up the mountain-side, until they reached a sort of plateau or table-land, beyond which it was not necessary to climb further.
By this time the three were pretty well tired out again, and once more an appeal was made to the stuff in the flask, without which the hunters felt they could not get along.
Then they indulged in several cigarettes apiece, that and the drink of alcohol being the worst preparation possible for the sport in which they were engaged.