The poet laureate spread the paper out, started to read, then suddenly paused.
"What's the matter?" asked Piper. He leaned over the stout boy's shoulder. "H'm, I don't wonder you stopped," he added. "Here's what it says, Heydon:
"'We feel sorry for the poor chump who dug, dug, dug. Oh, say—was it a hard job? Did your back ache? After this, consider yourself easy. Sit down and think it over.
"'The Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits.'
"That settles it," sneered Piper, wrathfully. "But we don't need to sit down and think it over. We'll stand up and think, and tell you what we think—of you. In the first place, Yardsley, I didn't know you wrote such a good hand.—My compliments."
The trapper looked at the angry face of his visitor and had difficulty in repressing a smile. "Young feller," he said, "I allow it all looks kinder queer, an' mebbe I shouldn't blame ye, but I tell yer fur the last time that this ain't none of my doin's, an' I want yer ter believe—"
A series of wild war-whoops suddenly interrupted him. Then, from behind a clump of trees, to the astonishment of all, Musgrove, Sladder and Bowser stepped slowly forth.
The Stony Creek boys presented a strange and picturesque appearance. Their cheeks were liberally daubed with red and white chalk; each wore a thick bunch of goose feathers in his cap, and carried in his right hand a club of tremendous size.
"We're the Unterrified Band of Near-Bandits!" roared Sladder, swinging his club vigorously.
"An' ain't afear'd of nothin' that walks!" yelled Musgrove. "Ha, ha—Pardsley won't never try no more funny tricks on us—ha, ha!"