The point of this remark was so apparent to all that they smiled and agreed that the best thing they could do was to return to camp. They naturally felt exhausted after their lively experience with the animal, of whose pluck they had gained a better knowledge than ever before.
“Suppose there had been two of them,” remarked Tom, leading the way down the mountain path.
“Then there wouldn’t have been any of us,” replied Jim, who was walking next to him, Bob Budd bringing up the rear.
“I don’t believe there’s half so much fun in hunting as a good many people fancy,” was the sage observation of young Wagstaff, who found it so much easier to walk down than up the path, that he felt inclined to discuss their recent experience.
“Well, for those that like that kind of sport, why, that’s the kind of sport they like. As for me, I’d rather stretch out in the camp and take things easy.”
This picture was so fascinating to the others that they hastened their footsteps so as to reach their headquarters with the least possible delay.
“I can’t help feeling grateful for one thing,” remarked Bob, from the rear of the procession.
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“That Jim shot poor Hero instead of me. I can’t understand how I escaped, for we weren’t more than twenty feet apart, and Jim was fully as far as that from the buck when he took such careful aim.”
“My aim was all right,” replied Jim, “but after the charge left the gun the hound and the buck changed places. If they hadn’t moved the game would have caught it.”