"Mr. Smith won't tell on 'em," he whispered to Hubert after they had gone to bed, "but just wait till we get home. Uncle Walter will have the sheriff starting into this swamp in a day's time."
When a woodpecker, boring loudly into the cabin's roof, roused him next morning, Ted saw that the sun was shining, realized that he had overslept, and wondered why he had not been called. Hearing voices outside, he conjectured that the old trapper had been delayed by the arrival of visitors. But what visitors? The boy thought instantly of Deserters' Island, which was undoubtedly the nearest inhabited area within many miles. In sudden fear, he checked the noisy movements he was making. Then, listening intently, he heard the unmistakable voice of Sweet Jackson!
Creeping to the front wall, Ted peeped out through a crack between the logs, and at once his eyes confirmed the evidence presented by his ears. Sweet Jackson and Mitch' Jenkins, their guns across their knees, were seated near the camp fire eating the breakfast the old trapper was serving them.
"We wanted to make yo' camp last night," Jackson was saying, "but we was too fur. When we made it up to come over this-a way, I thought I'd bring a hide to trade for some plug-tobacco."
"Well, I'll trade," said old Mr. Smith, with his usual good-natured manner.
Ted bounded softly back to the bed and, bending down, shook Hubert.
"Quit pushin' me," complained Hubert, still half asleep.
"Hush!" whispered Ted warningly. "Look at me! Listen, and don't make a noise. Some of the slackers are out there!"
Hubert's rebelliousness disappeared on the instant, and he stared at his cousin in silent fright. Then he, too, heard Jackson's voice, whereupon he started up, looking wildly about, as if for some means of escape.
Without waiting to say more Ted hurried back to his peep-hole.