“I can’t stand this any longer,” whispered Frank. “I’m going to fire.”
Aiming directly at the sound Frank pulled the trigger. As the report crashed among the trees a roar of pain filled the air and a crashing sound as if a body had fallen was heard.
“What on earth is it?” gasped Harry, as the roar was followed by whines and yells of pain and a sound as if a big carcass was lashing about on the ground.
It was Quatty who solved the mystery.
“Why, dat’s a panfer,” he cried, “ah knowed all along ’twern’t nuffin’ but dat.”
“Get the lantern,” ordered Frank, curtly, “and we’ll see what it is.”
Frank shoots a panther.
“Yes, massa,” sputtered the negro awed by the boy’s sharp tone. He lit the lamp in silence and the boys sallied out. It was as Quatty had said. On the ground near their camp-fire lay the animal still writhing. Frank put it out of its agony with a shot through the head and then the boys bent over their prize, examining admiringly its tawny skin and great shapely head.
“See, massa, Quatty was right. Nuffin’ to get scared of. Nuffin’ but an ole panfer.”