"Because," Steve went on to say, "if you ever do get in collision with one, we'll have to bury every stitch you've got on, crop your hair close, and make you sleep and live in some old hollow tree. Ain't that so, Uncle Jim!"
"I guess that's about the size of it," came the reply.
"Oh, you d-d-don't need to w-w-worry about me," Toby hastened to say. "I know enough to k-k-keep out of the r-r-rain. I d-d-don't like his l-l-loud ways any b-b-better'n the rest of you."
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Steve continued, severely. "I'm a little suspicious about you, Toby, because you always did like cats. And I'm going to keep an eye out to-morrow for a handy hollow tree so's to be all ready."
"Oh, s-s-shucks! I h-h-hope you'll n-n-need it your own self," was what Toby sent back at him.
By the time supper was ready the boys were as hungry as a pack of wolves in January. And everything tasted so good, too.
Trapper Jim showed them how to cook some of the venison in a most appetizing way. It was "some tough," as even the proud Steve admitted; but, then, what boy with a gnawing appetite ever bothered about such a small thing?
The idea that they had actually shot the deer themselves would cover a multitude of sins in the eyes of the young Nimrods.
And while they were satisfied that the disagreeable odor left behind by their unwelcome guest had been dissipated, Trapper Jim knew better. They would detect faint traces of it about the place for days to come, and find no difficulty about believing the trapper's story about the abandonment of a lumber camp.
"Are all s-s-skunks s-s-striped like that one was?" asked Toby, during the progress of the meal.