"They say one swallow don't make a spring," remarked Owen, when all danger was over, "but it strikes me one polecat does."
Of course, since the object of his labor had now been successfully accomplished, Max took the board away from the top of the chimney.
This allowed the smoke to escape in a normal way.
But when they stepped inside the cabin the boys were loud in their expressions of disgust.
"That weed was sure a corker for smell as well as smoke, Uncle Jim!" declared Owen.
"Well, I guess you're right there," chuckled the trapper. "I admit it does run a pretty fair race with Mr. Skunk himself, and that's why they give it his name. But it did the business all right, eh, boys?"
"That's what," assented Steve, who had been holding his breath until he could get used to the tainted atmosphere.
"And we ought to be thankful it's no worse," declared Max, joining them.
"Yes," Trapper Jim went on to say, "I remember a case where in a logging camp some greenhorn was foolish enough to kill one of the animals, and the result was they had to build new quarters. Nobody could stand it in the old place. There's nothing more lasting."
"It ain't overly nice right now," asserted Steve. "I'm wondering which I like least, the perfume our visitor left or the one your old skunkweed made."