"He thought he was in a swimming race!" cried Hackett.
"'Tain't right ter plague a feller that way," reproved Yardsley, mildly. "Powerful singular I didn't happen ter mention that pit, ain't it? I guess the race is over."
"Lay on your back, and you won't sink any further, Mushroom," shouted Hackett.
To all these remarks Sladder and Musgrove paid no attention. They were too busy extricating themselves from their unpleasant predicament. Bowser had ambled to the edge of the pit, and, evidently realizing that something was amiss, barked dolefully.
At length, after having slipped and fallen several times, the two boys managed to reach solid ground. They brushed their clothes and came slowly back.
The others had expected to see Musgrove explode with wrath, but besides a queer expression in his small, blinking eyes, his pudgy face gave no evidence of anger.
"Got ahead of us that time, Pardsley," he observed. "I ain't saying what I think of nobody—no, sir—don't want to start a free fight, but say"—Billy Musgrove paused, the queer look in his eyes deepened, "there's goin' ter be some fun 'round these diggin's 'fore I leave—an' don't you forgit it."
"Powerful glad ter hear that," declared the trapper. "You kinder tempted me, the way you talked, a spell back. It's a failin' I've got. Now I want all hands ter grub with me."
The boys were soon compelled to acknowledge that John Yardsley was certainly a good cook. Baked beans, roasted potatoes, and venison steak done to a crisp turn were set before them, besides steaming coffee and hard-tack. At the last, to their great satisfaction, came buckwheat cakes and maple syrup.
Under the cheering influence of the fire and a company of lively boys, John Yardsley began to grow confidential. He freely admitted his superiority in skill over the majority of hunters and trappers.