“Well?” said Tug.
“It’s Pat, all right!” said Chip sententiously.
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?” Tug and Walter cried together.
“Sure as—as—sure as I be that skeeters bite,” replied Chip, slapping viciously at his neck.
“Did you find the pin?” asked Walter eagerly.
“Naw! You don’t suppose he’d be such a fool as to have it lying around in plain sight, do you?” Chip’s tone indicated his supreme disgust. “But,” he continued, “it’s a cinch that he took it just the same. What’d we better do about it?”
“How the deuce do we know, when you haven’t told us your story yet? Come, out with it, you tantalizing blockhead!” growled Tug impatiently.
Chip shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Well,” he began, “you know the big chief sent me over to the Durant camp with a message this afternoon. After I’d delivered it I thought I’d just look round a bit, and do a little scoutin’. Pat wasn’t there. Fact is, the whole gang was in the woods ’cept the boss and the cook. Got kind of chummy with the cook, and he opened up a nice little can of his own private troubles and poured ’em out for my special benefit.
“Seems he ain’t got much use for boys, and for Pat Malone in particular. Nothin’ special, I guess, only Pat plays tricks on him and raids his cooky box pretty often. They’re good cookies, all right,” he added reminiscently.
“Well, I jollied him along,” continued Chip, “and went pokin’ ’round like I’d never seen a lumber camp before. Pretty soon I see a pair of spiked boots hanging on a nail. ‘What’ll you take for the boots, cookie?’ says I. Cookie grinned. ‘Them ain’t mine,’ says he. ‘They belong to that young rascal Pat Malone. I reckon money wouldn’t buy ’em of him. Sets as much store by ’em as if they was pure gold. Was give to him by one of the fellers over to your camp.’”