“I’ve killed something” was Jim’s reply, who, drawing his pocket safe, struck a match and held it over his head, while both stooped over and examined the trophy of their skill and strategy.
“Jim,” said Tom, the next moment, “I’ll agree never to say anything about this, for I’m in it as bad as you.”
“It’s a bargain,” was the reply of the other; “we’ll never tell Bob, even, for he would plague us to death.”
The object before them was a six months’ old calf. It had probably become lost in the woods, and, hearing persons walking, followed them with a dim idea that they were friends and would take care of it. The result was a sad example of misplaced confidence.
Certain now that nothing was to be feared from the rogues that must have disposed of Lenman and Durrell long before, the youths resumed their progress through the wood with the same aimless effort that had marked their journey from the first.
It was not long after their incident with the calf that both noticed that they had entered what seemed to be a valley of slight descent. The sound of running water warned them to be careful of their steps, though it was evident the stream was small.
Wagstaff still kept his place slightly in advance, and was picking his way with the same care he had shown from the first, when he stopped short once more.
“What is it?” asked his companion, stepping to his elbow.
“What the mischief can that be?” asked Tom, in reply.
Although Jim could not see the extended arm, he knew his friend was pointing at something which was now observed by him, and whose appearance mystified him beyond expression.