“Well, I suppose we could make some kind of a showing in fighting a mountain lion if we had a pick and shovel. But they’d come in better to bury him with after we’d killed him,” commented his chum.
The Indian lad went ahead and the chums scrambled after him into the bears’ den. The passage—the sides of which they could easily touch with their outstretched hands—was as black as the inside of a coal-chute; and it inclined sharply like a chute, too.
The passage seemed to be straight, and the chums heard nothing but an occasional grunt from John Peep, who had difficulty in crawling with his crippled leg.
Chet scrambled along after the Indian, and Digby Fordham, to be sure of his chum’s position, grabbed him by the ankle.
“Stop pulling my leg, Dig!” cried Chet, his voice sounding muffled and strange in the subterranean passage.
“I’ve got to grab you once in a while to make sure you’re here,” said Dig. “It’s as dark in here as the pants’ pocket of a negro, stealing chickens in the dark of the moon!”
“Stop your joking, and come on,” commanded Chet.
“Oh! you can’t lose me, boy,” returned his chum. “At least, you won’t lose me in this hole. I’m keeping right after you. There! Tag! you’re it again.”
John Peep grunted—whether in disgust at Dig’s nonsense or not—and stopped. The white boys were right behind him. They waited, asking no question, and soon heard the Indian boy scratch a match.
At the second scrape of the match the light flashed up. They saw him light a candle in a rude tin lantern. It was plain it had been made by punching holes in the sides of a half gallon bean can. But crude as the lantern was, its glow dissipated the darkness.