"Hurt?" came a chorus of excited voices.
"Not a bit of it. Scratched up a bit by these plagued vines—that's all. And the swan's most as good as ever. Hurrah! Got two souvenirs, instead of one."
"Gee whitaker, but I was scared," said Dick Travers. "Thought sure you'd be nearly chewed to pieces."
"You hold the record now, Somers—two bully shots," broke in Havens. "But say—as you don't need any help, excuse me from pushing any further into this mess."
"You're a lucky chap," came from Dave. "Mighty good your first shot settled him."
Bob found it very hard to extricate himself from the thick mass of underbrush and creepers. He touched the wildcat gingerly with his toe, then stooped over and examined the wicked-looking head.
"You're an awful monster," he exclaimed. "Here, Chubby—catch a few pounds of wildcat."
He picked up the animal, and with a hard effort managed to land it near the edge of the thicket; then the swan followed.
By the time Bob got out of his unpleasant position, he was badly scratched up.
The swan was not seriously damaged, although the marks of the wildcat's teeth showed plainly on its neck.