“Well, wait then till I load up again,” said Bob, as he, too, entered the tent. “Where’s the cartridge box, Ben?”
“Over there on the table,” replied Ben, lazily. “Help yourself,” he added, as he turned over upon his side.
Bob evidently did “help himself,” for he not only filled the empty chambers with cartridges, but he slipped the box also into his pocket. When he returned to the fire, he spread the blanket upon the ground once more and carefully adjusted the pillow.
“If I’ve got to stay on guard I might as well do it in style,” he murmured, as he stretched himself upon the blanket, and was soon sleeping as soundly as his friends in the tent.
He did not sleep so long, however, for about once in every half hour he rose, and taking his stand in front of the tent he repeated his war dance, punctuating it with the sharp reports of his revolver and his ear-splitting shrieks.
In vain the boys begged of him to permit one of them to relieve him of the task, but Bob remained obdurate. “No, sir,” he declared. “I’m doing my duty! I’m not going to let one of those St. Lawrence panthers into this camp to-night if I know myself. I’m going to protect you, no matter at what cost to me.”
And so there was not much sleep in the camp that night, though it was likely that Bob enjoyed as much as any one, for between his efforts to frighten away the “prowling panthers,” he slept on his blanket before the fire.
Perhaps the excitement of the night caused the boys to sleep somewhat later than usual on the following morning, for Bob, who was the first to awake, was roused by the voice of Ethan.
“What ye sleepin’ out here for?” demanded the boatman in surprise.