It had been the intention of Max to try and find a few woodcock in the wet ground of the marsh.
Other things coming up caused him to put this project off until another day. It was really no time for hunting, with a hot sun beaming down. Perhaps later on he might find plenty of chances to indulge in his favorite sport.
Owen had cleaned his catch, and supper was being started when voices were heard approaching.
"Here comes Toby and Bandy-legs," sang out Steve, who had at the first sound made as if to reach for the guns that rested against the tree close to the opening of the tent.
"Well," remarked Owen, looking up, "it's good to know they didn't go and get lost, anyhow. Perhaps that compass kept 'em from straying out of the trail you said you made, Max?"
"Huh! we made it so plain," remarked Steve, "that a baby ought to be able to follow our tracks. But then Toby and Bandy-legs always seem to tumble into trouble if there's just half a chance to get mixed up. Say, they've got the bags pretty well filled up with mussels, anyhow."
"You bet we have," panted Bandy-legs, as he set his burden down.
"G-g-great s-s-sport," remarked Toby, following.
"Glad you like it," laughed Max, "because we expect to do a heap of wading while we're up here."
"D-d-did you open the others?"