“Be still!” he said, sternly. “This is no laughing matter. Never fear Buster, but you’ll be able to rake up enough clothes to last till we get to the Soo, where you can buy a new outfit. Off with every stitch, now. Then you must dig a hole and bury them; or else carry the lot deep into the bush here, as you choose.”
“Is that all?” asked Nick, tremulously, as he hastily tore the last remnant of his garments from his stout person.
“Not quite,” replied Jack. “Get rid of the stuff next. Then come back to where you are now. I’ll be waiting for you with a pair of short scissors I happen to have along with me; for you see I’ve just got to cut all your hair off!”
“Oh! what a guy I’ll be, Jack,” moaned poor Nick. “I’ll sure never hear the last of this thing.”
“Think of us!” said George, sternly, “how we must remember it for days and days. You’re getting off dirt cheap, Buster, let me tell you. I’ve heard of fellows who had to live like hermits in the woods for weeks.”
“Now get busy,” observed Jack. “The boys will be rooting out your bag, and I’ll fetch what clothes we can gather to you. We must do all we can to smother this perfumery factory.”
“Yes, be off wid ye!” said Jimmie, bent on having a hand in the game.
Nick stared mournfully at the clothes on the ground. Then he slowly gathered them up in his arms. They noticed that as he walked away he looked around with exceeding care at every step he took, as though not for worlds would he want to renew his acquaintance with that pretty striped Canadian pussy cat.
Jack was as good as his word. When George and Herb had collected an outfit calculated to serve poor Nick until they reached a land of plenty, and clothing establishments, he carried the lot to the place appointed.
Here came Nick presently with a most dejected air; and groaning in spirit the fat boy allowed the other to shear off all his abundant locks.