A little later Sid burst into the room where his two chums were pouring over their books.
“Say! What in blazes did you fellows go back on me that way for?” he demanded.
“What’s that? He speaks in riddles!” said Phil softly. “Why, Siddie,” he went on, as a mother might chide a little boy, “wherever have you been? You’re all mud! Oh, such a state as your trousers are in! Whatever will papa say, Siddie?”
“What a dirty beast!” cried Tom in simulated horror.
Poor Sid looked from one to the other.
“Why did you tell Pitchfork I wasn’t Henderson?” he demanded savagely.
“Tell Pitchfork you weren’t yourself?” asked Phil, as if he had never heard of such a thing.
“What do you mean?” inquired Tom innocently. “We haven’t seen you since we left you going after the fox, and we got tired and came home.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” began Sid, “that you didn’t——” And then he stopped, at the grins that appeared on the faces of his chums. “What’s the use?” he asked wearily. “All right, I’ll get even with you two,” he concluded as he put his camera away and proceeded to change his clothes. But a little later, when he had developed the picture of the fox, and found it to be a fine one, he forgot his anger and the ordeal he had gone through, for Sid was a true naturalist.