“What is it?” he called, as he ran. “Another Canada pussy cat?”
“That’s just what it is,” replied George quickly.
“And is Buster at his old tricks again?” continued the other; at which Nick was compelled to grin amiably, knowing his hour of triumph was at hand.
“Buster was in the mix-up, all right,” George went on; “only this time he happened to be at the other end of the gun. Buster has covered himself with immortal glory. We all must knuckle down to him after this as the great Nimrod; for he has just slain the Jabberwock. Looky here, Jack; what d’ye call that?”
“Well, I declare, a big Canada lynx!” cried the newcomer, recognizing the dead beast as soon as he saw its queer tasseled ears, and its ferocious whiskers.
“It tackled Jimmie here, and they were having a hot old argument of it, Jimmie pounding with his club, and the cat using its claws,” Herb said, turning to the Irish boy, to see how badly he was wounded.
Jack became sympathetic at once, and anxious in the bargain.
“Only a few little scratches you say, Jimmie,” he remarked. “That’s true, they don’t seem serious; but it’s always dangerous to be marked with the claws of animals that live on carrion, like lions, grizzlies or wildcats. And I’m glad to say I’ve got something along for just such a case. Come on back to camp with me.”
Jimmie, still protesting, did so; while the others, dragging the lynx, made Buster head the procession, while they sang: “Lo! the Conquering Hero Comes; Sound the Trumpets, Beat the Drums!” greatly to the delight of the fat boy.
When Jack applied the purple colored tincture from a small bottle to the wounds on Jimmie’s face and hands, the Irish boy gave a whoop of pain.