It was about midnight that they were aroused by a loud wail of distress from the tent which Persimmons shared with his two chums. Mountain Jim rolled out of his blankets—he disdained tents—and Jimmie, who likewise was content with a makeshift by the fire, started up as quickly. From the door of the professor’s tent appeared an odd-looking figure in striped pajamas.
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland! What’s up?” roared Mountain Jim.
“Wow! Ouch! He’s sticking me! Ow-w-w-w!” came in a series of yells from Persimmons. “Ouch! Prancing pincushions, come quick!”
“Is that boy in trouble again?” demanded the professor, as he slipped on a pair of slippers and advanced with Mountain Jim toward the scene of the disturbance. The air was now filled with boyish shouts, echoing and re-echoing among the craggy hills that surrounded the small canyon in which the camp was pitched.
As they neared the tent, from under the sod-cloth a small dark form came shuffling forth. It grunted as it went, like a diminutive pig. Jim jerked his old Winchester to his shoulder and the death struggle of the small animal immediately followed the rifle’s report.
Simultaneously, the three boys clad in their underclothing, dashed out of the tent door.
“Is it Indians?” shouted Hardware.
“A bear?” yelled Ralph, who had his automatic in hand.
“More like a walking pincushion,” yelled Persimmons, dancing about and nursing one of his hands, “look here!”
He held out his hand and they saw several objects which, in the moonlight, looked like so many knitting needles projecting from it.