Every one of the party was sniffing the tainted air as if the familiar stench were some rare perfume—all but Jim. He had had an encounter with a skunk, once in his impulsive puppy days, and the memory was too painful to be dwelt upon.
As they climbed the slope, one of the fish-hawks came swooping down from somewhere high in the blue, and began circling on slow wings about the nest.
"That cross old bird doesn't like visitors," remarked Woolly Billy.
"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.