The tumult threatened to break out again, but the pause was well timed, and Hackett launched forth into a vivid description, which was punctuated at telling points by a chorus of "ah's and oh's" from his interested listeners.
"Boys, I'm proud of yer," declared the trapper, beamingly, as he extended his hand to each in turn. "Born hunters—both of yer. What d'ye think of it?" and he turned toward Sladder and Musgrove.
"Ain't bad, fur town fellers, but," and Musgrove grinned in his impudent fashion, "me an' Tim wouldn't think nothing of it. No, sir! Why—"
"But do tell us about the fawn," interposed Dick Travers, impatiently, as Hackett's eyes began to glare.
During the reunion, the small animal had made frantic efforts to escape. The sight of big, lumbering Bowser especially terrified it, but the dog, slowly walking forth and back, kept at a considerable distance, eying the newcomer askance, occasionally uttering a doleful bark.
"Brave dog of yours, Sladder," sneered Hackett. "Wonder it hasn't keeled over. It can hardly stand up now, for fright."
Tim grinned, then glanced, with a rather peculiar expression, at Yardsley. "He ain't never been hisself since he heard them awful screeches outside our shanty," he declared. "'Most had a spell then; but you ain't got money enough ter buy him."
"He's only good enough for the dog pound."
"Oh, but the fawn—do tell us about the fawn," put in Tom Clifton.
Hackett complied.