Puffing out his cheeks, and squaring his shoulders, Stacy swaggered over to the dead bob-cat, violently pulling its ear.
"He tried to bite me," explained the boy. "See—he tore a lacer in my leggin. I didn't see him till I almost stepped on him. I knew right off that it was the pussy that Lige shot at last night."
"What happened then?" asked Tad, with an admiring grin on his face.
"I fetched him one on the side of the head with a club. He jumped at me and I hit him again. About that time I called, and you fellows came up. But I got him, didn't I, Professor?"
"You did, my lad. But you took a great risk in attempting to do so," smiled the Professor, picking the dead animal up and hefting it. "I think he'll weigh about twenty pounds," he decided. "Yes; undoubtedly it's the fellow Thomas shot last night. The brute was so badly wounded that he was unable to drag himself far away."
"What shall we do with him now?" asked the boys.
"Take him to camp and leave him till Lige returns," advised the Professor. "And I think we had better tie up our young friend Stacy, or he will be getting into more mischief than we are able to get him out of."
"Why can't we skin the cat?" inquired Ned.
"I should think you would prefer to wait till the guide sees it. And, besides, he knows better how to do that than any of the rest of us."
"Are—are bob-cats good to eat?" asked Chunky sheepishly.