“You’ll have to leave that to me,” responded his uncle as they made their way back to the car. Frank got out the medicine kit his mother had given him and Sam rubbed him with liniment. At three o’clock, Frank crawled into his berth again. Lying still his bruise did not pain him, but when Phil awoke him about seven o’clock the boy’s shoulder was black and blue, and his arm was stiff.
The town by daylight was far from being as interesting as the boys had hoped. The altitude was not great—not more than 4,000 feet—but the distant view both east and west revealed mountain ranges, snow crowned in places. North of the town and in a lower valley the Kootenai River wound a bending course. Along this the party was now to make its way into Canada.
Frank had not figured on the need of an explanation to account for Mr. Mackworth’s ruined trunk and, therefore, the adventure of the boy and Sam Skinner was fully known before breakfast. Then the excitement began all over again. The Englishmen made the lad a hero in spite of himself. It was doubtful if one man could have carried away any considerable amount of the plunder that had been heaped up near the door of the car. But each of Mr. Mackworth’s guests had a most elaborate and expensive shooting outfit, and each seemed convinced that Frank had saved his own particular property.
As Frank was a member of the party, the tactful Captain Ludington and Lord Pelton recognized that they could not express their gratitude in money. For that reason their verbal thanks were genuinely profuse.
“I don’t know why you select me for all this fine talk,” Frank said at last. “Mr. Skinner heard the man. He did more than I did—”
“All right,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth. “We’ll have a special luncheon to-day in honor of both.”
When this event came off it turned out to be a tribute to a third person—Jake Green. Instead of a luncheon it was a banquet and a jolly one. As Frank approached his chair he found by its side—leaning against the table—a Lefever, sixteen gauge, hammerless shotgun, automatic ejector, Damascus steel barrels, English walnut stock and pistol grip.
At his plate was a card inscribed: “For value received,” and signed by all the members of the party, including Phil, whose shotgun had not been overlooked by the intruder.
“I won’t take it,” began Frank, red of face and embarrassed. “Give it to Mr. Skinner.”