Tom jumped into the tent and lit the lantern. By its dim rays, they saw what had made the clatter. Half their little stock of canned goods and other provisions had been knocked down off the shelf Joe had built.
“I know—porcupines!” Spider cried. “Remember, Big Bertha told us to look out for ’em.”
They carried their provisions back into the tent, and went to sleep again.
Tom was the first up. Joe heard him muttering and exclaiming outside the tent, and crawled out to see what was the matter.
“Matter? Matter?” Spider shouted. “Look at this—and this!”
He held up his sweater in one hand, and one of the scout axes in the other. One entire sleeve of the sweater was gone, and the handle of the axe was so chewed up that it was practically useless.
“Holy smoke, what did that?”
Before Tom could answer, there was a movement in the undergrowth, and both boys sprang toward it. There, sure enough, was the culprit—a fat porcupine, surprised by their quick descent, and backing away from them with every quill rigid and ready for business. Tom grabbed a heavy stick, and was about to hit it, when Joe stopped him.
“Wait a minute—I want to see it work,” he said. “I want to see if they really throw their quills. You keep him here.”
Joe quickly hunted up a rotten stick, and gingerly poked it at the porcupine, which bit at the end viciously, and filled it full of quills, but he certainly didn’t “shoot” them. The stick had to touch them first before they came out.