“We certainly have been royally entertained, Mr. Flannigan, and want to thank you for it.”
“Shure, an’ it’s yourselves that has done the entertainin’,” responded the foreman, with a comical grin.
“Well, good-night, everybody!” shouted the Scouts in chorus, and were answered by a good-natured mumble from the deep-chested woodmen.
“Forward, march!” called Scout-Master Durland, and the Boy Scouts started on their return journey.
CHAPTER III
THE OLD SNAKE HUNTER
The boys—Jack, Tom and Bob—set off one morning at the Scout-Master’s direction for the bluestone quarries situated about a mile from the lodge. Don rushed joyfully ahead, barking at squirrels, who looked at him tantalizingly from safe retreats in the trees, chasing rabbits into their burrows, and making himself altogether disagreeable to the astonished inhabitants of the forest.
The way to the quarries was not an easy one. The boys had to climb over great rocks, descend the steep sides of mountains, slipping and sliding most of the way; they had to make a path through stout vines that reached from tree to tree and seemed determined not to let them pass. Still they went steadily forward, for what Scout would ever think of complaining or, worse yet, of turning back with a task half done?
Finally they saw before them through the trees a small hut before which an old man of strange appearance was standing. He wore an old brown hunting suit, so old and threadbare, in fact, that the boys wondered how it ever managed to hold together; his leather leggings were strapped securely just below the knee. In his hand he held an implement that looked like a pitchfork, but which had only two prongs, and in his mouth was a huge pipe that sent up a cloud of smoke at every puff. And although his face was all criss-crossed with wrinkles, the few people who knew him forgot all about that when they caught the kindly gleam of his dark eyes, which were just as keen and bright at sixty as they had been at twenty.
Don trotted up and down and regarded the old man, with one paw raised and his head cocked inquiringly on one side, confident of welcome.
“Waal, I’ll be durned!” said the old fellow scratching his head in perplexity. “If that dog ain’t the image of my Rover what got drowned down in the river yonder a year ago come Monday! Seems like he might almost be Rover’s sperret; that is, ef I was to believe in sech things. Come here, doggie, an’ ’splain yerself! One minnit ye ain’t there an’ next minnit ye air! Whar be ye from?” and he laid his hand gently on the big dog’s head.