“I suppose all the yarns they tell about him are true,” said Digby, his eyes twinkling; “but I always liked that one about his shooting the coon the best.”
“What is that?” asked his chum innocently.
“Why,” said Dig, “when the coon saw Davy Crockett aiming at him, he sang out:
“‘Hol’ on, Mars’ Crockett! Don’ shoot! I’ll come down!’”
“That’s a yarn, Dig,” laughed Chet. “But it’s a good one. Come on! Here’s a straight piece of road. I’ll race you.”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Dig. “I’ve shaken down my breakfast enough already. Do you see those raspberries, Chet?”
“Cracky! what a lot of them!” cried Chet.
“Let’s have a mess of them,” his chum said eagerly, and leaped down from his saddle.
“Here! here!” called Chet. “Hitch your horse, old man. We don’t want to be chasing Poke all over the pasture.”
“All right. And hang your tinware on the saddle,” urged Dig, slipping the strap of his own rifle over the cantle after hitching Poke. He raced to the nearest clump of raspberry bushes as though he thought they would mysteriously disappear if he did not reach there in a minute.