What could he do? He remembered hearing of a gun that had burst because there was mud in the end of the barrel. True, that was a shotgun. Dared he risk it? He brought the gun to his shoulder—then hesitated.
Bad was no coward, but he knew the risk. “Hal!” he yelled for the last time. There was no reply, but the click of footsteps and a loud “Ouch!” told him his call had done no good. He saw the lion crouch still lower, the leg muscles tightened, and then—Bang!
Bad had shut his eyes as he pulled the trigger. Furthermore, he had not held the rifle very tight to his shoulder; he picked himself out of the water and gave a frightened look toward the bridge. The lion was still there but no longer crouching. He was whirling round and round, a struggling bundle of rage and scratching claws. His savage whines sent the cold chills up and down Bad’s back. Coming too close to the edge of the bridge, the lion rolled off—and Bad hastily scrambled his way toward the bank.
“Hello!” called Hal, appearing just then in the cave entrance. “What’s up, Bad?”
“Nothing,” said Bad limply.
“Nothing? Is that what makes you look so sick? What you been doing with the gun?”
“Nothing.” Then he added slyly but shakily: “I just clouted Mr. Lion in the jaw.”
“The lion! Was it you that shot? Where is he?” came in rapid succession.
“I believe he went downstairs there to get a drink,” laughed Bad, his voice and legs getting stronger. “If you’ll help me to fish him out, we’ll lug him back to Lakefarm, and s’prise the natives.”
And that was certainly what they did, as, a couple of hours later, they arrived, fagged out but proud, at Lakefarm Institute and dropped their trophy at the feet of Mr. Byrd, who, with Mr. Frankland and Mr. Miles and Mr. Porter, as well as all the Boy Scouts, was waiting to receive them.