But the old man’s cries as he darted here and there among them had no effect on the dogs, who finished their meal with frenzied snappings and one or two fights which had to be broken up by main force.
“Now, I go get few teengs an’ we start,” said old Joe, when the animals had lain down in the snow to digest their not over-plentiful meal.
“Boosh! We geev that feller warm reception when we find him, I bet you.”
When old Joe reappeared from the hut, he carried with him a long, wicked-looking old squirrel gun. Its barrel was almost six feet long and it was of a dark, well-worn brown color.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Tom, as the old man tenderly fumbled with the lock.
“Maybe have use heem. Boosh! No can tell,” he replied oracularly.
“Jiminy!” whispered Jack to Tom, as with their new ally they set out once more along the trail, “old Santa Claus can look positively ferocious when he wants to, can’t he?”
“Yes, but I’ve got a notion that he carries that funny old shooting iron more for effect than anything else. Still, I’m glad we have him along; he may prove a valuable ally,” surmised Tom.
“Well, with Santa Claus on our side we ought to have better luck along the trouble trail,” agreed Jack.
