In a moment more it would have been sent crashing into the fence corner, had not Frank, who could plainly see the motion, called out:
"What are you about there?"
"Good land o' Goshen!" exclaimed the man, lowering the threatening bludgeon. "Who be you, and what did you crawl in there for?"
"Now you've done it," whispered Leon in great alarm. "That's Mr. Jenkins—the farmer who supplies us with wood. I know his voice."
"I'll talk to him," whispered Frank, in reply. "You stay here, and when you hear me whistle, come out and bring my gun with you."
As he said this, he placed his rifle in his cousin's hand, picked up his valise, and walked out into the road.
The dog showed a disposition to be belligerent when he came in sight, but a few words from his master, accompanied by a flourish of the club, put a stop to his demonstrations.
"It's a pity that a fellow can't step aside to rest for a moment without having a dog set on him!" exclaimed Frank. "Is that the way you generally treat people in this country?"
"I declare to man, I didn't know it was a boy that was hid in them bushes," said the farmer apologetically. "I reckoned mebbe it was some kind of a varmint, 'cause Maje kicked up such a row. Goin' my way? Jump in, and I'll give you a lift."
"I am obliged to you, but I would rather walk."