He paused a minute, and then:
“But be glad you hae it, Sandy McTavish, you ungrateful carlin. You’re lucky not to have to make a supper off scenery; and, after all, you are nae sae hungry as yon wolves, judging by their voices.”
CHAPTER XXVIII—THE TRAP.
It was a dispirited enough party that, under the stars, retraced its way from the camp of the little gray man, who at first, seeming so harmless and helpless, had turned out to be so venomous and vindictive. Tom and Jack had little to say.
The case was different with old Joe Picquet. He cried out aloud to the stars for vengeance on the Wolf. He abused his name in English, French and every one of half a dozen Indian dialects.
“Oh, what’s the use,” said Tom at length, interrupting a diatribe. “The fellow had the whip hand of us from the moment we let ourselves be taken in by believing he really was sick and helpless.”
“Think of that wood we chopped,” muttered Jack, with a groan.
Jack was not a lover of that form of exercise which is taken with the assistance of an axe. He felt like joining old Joe’s lamentations as he thought of the vigor with which he had worked to relieve the seemingly sick man’s necessities.
“It is a good lesson to us,” went on Tom, “although it has been a mighty costly one. If we hadn’t shilly-shallied about that tent we would have been well on our way with the stolen skins by this time.”
“No use crying over spilt milk,” counseled Jack. “It is done now and can’t be undone. Wonder if we will ever see those rascals again?”