“Oh, I been huntin’ an’ trappin’ ’round here,” the other said.
To Jack it seemed the man was an honest enough, even a likeable, type, and yet that he was acting evasively. He decided it would be a good plan to get a more experienced head to help him deal with the situation. None of his party apparently was awake, all being worn out with the terrific strain of the day’s travel. But Art lay near him. In fact, his foot was not six inches from Jack.
Unostentatiously, in order not to attract the newcomer’s attention, Jack moved his foot to a position where with his toe he could tap on Art’s ankles. It was sufficient for the purpose apparently, for, out of the tail of his eye Jack saw Art’s body stiffen and his head lift up slightly from the ground. For what followed, however, he was totally unprepared.
Art sprang to his feet, leaped forward and began thumping the newcomer vigorously on the back.
“Why, you ol’ son-of-a-gun,” he cried. “You ol’ son-of-a-gun.”
“Li’l Artie, or I’m goin’ blind,” cried the other, seizing Art by the hand and pumping up and down.
Jack turned in amazement to Art.
“Why—why—you know each other!” he cried.
“Know each other? Har, har, har,” roared the giant, in a guffaw that aroused the others about the campfire. “Know each other? That’s a good one.”
Mr. Hampton, Farnum, Bob and Frank, Farrell and several of the others gathered around, looking their questions, and Art turned to satisfy them.