Poor Nick was aghast. Almost overpowered by the terrible fumes as he was, it looked like adding insult to injury when his own chums turned against him, and refused to let him enter the camp.
He did come to a halt some thirty feet away, and with one hand, clung to a sapling; while the other was trying to keep the powerful scent from smothering him.
“What can I do, fellows?” he asked, pitifully.
George was almost bursting with laughter, but pretended to look as stern as his father when serving in his capacity as judge of the court.
“First promise that you won’t attempt to enter the camp without permission!” he demanded.
“I promise you, sure I do,” groaned Nick swaying weakly alongside his support.
“Jimmie,” went on George, “you go and call Jack in, if he isn’t on the way here already, after all this racket. We want everybody to have a hand in deciding Buster’s fate.”
“Good gracious!” cried the wretched Nick, “what d’ye mean, George? Do I have to be shot, because I made a little mistake? I give you my word I really thought it was a Canada species of cat. And if we had to have a menagerie along with us, I was going to match her against your monkey. Oh! why didn’t I think? I ought to have known better. It was awful, fellows; shocking I tell you!”
“I agree with you, Buster,” remarked George, putting his fingers up to his nose, “please go a little farther away. We can talk better then.”