“You wouldn’t, neether, Woolly Billy, if you was a fish-hawk,” said Jackson.
Arrived at the tree, Woolly Billy pointed eagerly to a slightly broken piece of bark a little above the height of the Deputy’s head.
“There’s the hole!” he cried, clapping his hands in his excitement as if relieved to find it had not vanished.
“Keep off a bit now, boys,” cautioned Blackstock. Drawing his long hunting-knife, he carefully loosened the bark without letting his hand come in contact with it, and on the point of the blade laid it aside against the foot of the trunk.
“Don’t any of you tech it,” he admonished.
Then he slipped his hand into the hole, and felt about.
A look of chagrin came over his face, and he withdrew his hand—empty.
“Nothin’ there!” said he.
“It was there yesterday morning,” protested Woolly Billy, his blue eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Blackstock, glancing slowly around the circle of disappointed faces.