“I wouldn’t mind, if he’d hit me anywhere else,” he gasped, in mingled pain and laughter.
“Where’s your gun?” asked Mr. Huffman suddenly.
“Where’s the lion?” Miles asked in return.
“Do you think he swallowed it?” asked Hal with a chuckle. At that they all gave way, as both Hal and the coroner had been aching to do, so comical was Mr. Miles’ pain-drawn face.
“I’m afraid it must have been knocked over the falls,” Mr. Miles managed at last to suggest. “He hit me pretty hard, and my game leg isn’t any too strong—especially when the pesky animal tried football on me.”
The gun was undoubtedly gone, and it must have fallen into the water.
“We’ll have to come back and dive for it,” added Hal with a sigh, for in a way he looked upon the rifle as his own. “That’ll be fun for us Scouts.”
“I hate to have that lion get away,” said the coroner regretfully; “but I suppose we might as well go back.”
“Suppose I take you two to Lakefarm and then go back from there for the rest,” said Miles as they walked back toward the aeroplane. “It will save time.”
So it was decided, and the two were soon dropped at Lakefarm, where they were awaited by an eager crowd of boys. Then Mr. Miles whirred back toward the top of Flathead, soon to return with his first load. On the last trip he brought back the body of the dead Maxwell and Dr. Byrd.