“He doesn’t understand,” he said. “He will never make a man-hunter.”
As though pained at this observation, Snip got up and ambled down to the river for a drink, and Chub turned to the others triumphantly.
“There!” he cried. “How’s that for intelligence? He smelled the fish and went right down to the river where they came from! Talk about your bloodhounds!”
“Come on,” laughed Dick. “We’ll be our own bloodhounds.”
“What are we going to say to him if we find him?” asked Roy as they set off, Snip far in the lead, along Inner Beach.
“Thank him for the fish,” suggested Chub.
“Tell him to keep out of our camp,” said Dick.
“I don’t think I’d say it just that way,” remonstrated Harry cautiously. “You see, Dick, he’s a poet, and poets are very easily offended; they’re so—so sensitive, you know.”
“Seems to me you know a lot about them!” said Roy.