He paused in his gesture of slyly offering more clover to the boy with the frightened eyes.
“Oh! I know the woods pretty well, Toiney,” he said. “I’ve been far into them with my father. I can find the way to Big Swamp.”
“I’ll bet me you’ head you get los’—hein?”
“Why don’t you bet your own seal-head, Toiney? You can’t say ‘Boo!’ straight.” Leon scathingly pointed to the Canadian’s bare, closely cropped head, dark and shiny as sealskin.
“Sapré! I’ll no bet yous head—you Leon—for nobodee want heem, axcep’ for play ping-pong,” screamed the enraged Toiney.
There was a general mirthful roar. Leon reddened.
“Oh, come; let’s ‘beat it’!” he cried. “We’ll never find that coon’s burrow, or anything else, if we stand here chattering with a Canuck. Look at Blink! He’s after something on the edge of the woods. A red squirrel, I think!”
He set off in the wake of the terrier, and his companions followed, disregarding further protests in Toiney’s ragged English.
Once more they were immersed in the woods beyond the clearing. The terrier was barking furiously up a pine tree, on whose lowest branch sat the squirrel getting off an angry patter of “Quek-Quik! Quek-quek-quek-quik!” punctuated with shrill little cries.
“Hear him chittering an’ chattering! There’s some fire to that conversation. See! the squirrel looks all red mouth,” laughed Nixon.