“Whew! do you think so, Chet?”
“If he measures up anywhere near to the specifications that Tony Traddles gave us last week.”
“Oh—Tony!” returned Dig, in disgust. “If he saw a lizard sitting on a log in the sun he’d declare it was the size of a crocodile.”
Chetwood Havens laughed. He was a nice-looking, fair-haired boy with grey-blue eyes and long, dextrous, capable hands. He braided the thongs without giving them more than a casual and cursory glance.
He was a tall boy, and slender, but with plenty of bodily strength. Digby Fordham was more sturdily built. He was square-set, broad-shouldered and thick-chested; and he had a broad, good-humoured face as well. His black hair was crisp; he had little, twinkling eyes; and usually his countenance wore a smile.
“Well,” Chet went on to say, following his chum’s criticism of Tony’s report, “there was Rafe Peters. Rafe is an old hunter, and he ought to know what he’s talking about when he says it’s the biggest bull buffalo that he ever saw.”
“Aw—all the buffaloes have gone up into Canada, somewhere,” growled Dig.
“No. I expect there are stray herds—small ones—hidden away in the mountains. Something or other has driven this herd out upon the plains. I heard some of the men talking about making up a party to go out and shoot ’em; but they are all too busy just now in the mines.”
“I reckon Rafe was just trying to string us,” said Dig.
“You’re a Doubting Thomas,” laughed his chum.