"Ye young scamps," cried Yardsley, but there was no anger in his voice. His eyes beamed, and he chuckled, as the "Unterrified Band" defiantly leaned on their clubs. "Wal—wal! Paid back in me own coin, eh? It sartingly beats all! Them two chaps hev been clean too much fur us!"
Fulmer Robson walked forward, extending his hand. "Yardsley," he said, "please accept my apologies. Too bad that this row occurred. I hope you have no hard feelings?"
"Not I!" replied the trapper, heartily.
"Ha, ha—look at Sniper an' Pardsley a-shakin' hands," cried Musgrove. "Oh, ain't it a purty sight, Tim?—Hey—want us ter come over? No more funny tricks, eh, Pardsley?" he asked suspiciously.
"Nary a thing—my word on it. All bad feelin's declared off."
The Stony Creek boys conferred together a moment, then, tightly clutching their clubs, marched forward.
But Yardsley's good-natured smile soon dissipated their fears.
"What's that, Pardsley—who writ them notes?—Why, me pal, Tim Sladder—he's a scholar, he is—yes, sir."
"Took a prize at school," asserted Sladder, proudly. "Keep me dad's books. I kin spell, too, all right, you bet."
"You sartingly can," laughed Yardsley. "Now, boys, tell us how yer done all these things, an' we'll call it square."