“That is as fine a string of fish as I care to take to the village,” observed Dick Langdon, as George rowed away from the bass-hole; “and if you want any more you will have to catch them yourself, Mr. Bob. I’m going to spend the afternoon in the woods, shooting squirrels.”
“All right!” responded Bob. “If you can see more sport in killing an innocent little animal, that has no chance for its life, than you can in having a hotly-contested battle with a black bass, go ahead. I shall do some more fishing, and I’ll warrant—Hallo! Who are those men?”
George and Dick turned about on their seats, and looking toward the cabin, saw there a party of a dozen or more horsemen, who seemed to be waiting for them. George took just one glance at them, and then resumed his work at the oars.
“Do you suppose they have come up here to hunt for fish?” continued Bob. “I don’t see anything that looks like a gun or rod among them. Why, George, what makes you look so sober all on a sudden?”
“Do you recognize any of the party?” asked George, in reply.
Bob and Dick shaded their eyes with their hands, and closely scrutinized every one of the horsemen in turn, but they could not see a single familiar form among them. The distance was so great that they could not see their faces.
“They are all strangers to me,” said Dick, and Bob echoed his words.
“There’s where you are mistaken,” said George, still tugging at the oars. “The one on that cream-colored horse is my Uncle Ruben—though what should bring him up here I don’t know—and those black horses are ridden by Mr. Stebbins, and Mr. Newton the deputy sheriff.”
George expected that his friends would be surprised at this announcement, and they certainly were. Their eyes grew to twice their usual size, their faces changed color, and, after looking at each other for a moment in silence, they turned about and looked at the horsemen again.
“You have certainly seen those white ponies before,” added George.