“There, now you see the story’s a fake,” Tom cried, “so good-night, Pork,—you’ll pay for my sweater, you beast, you!”
He brought his club down on the poor animal’s head, and laid it out.
“I kind of hate to see him killed,” said Joe.
“I hate to kill animals myself, but we got to keep our sweaters and axes,” Tom answered. “We’ll make an Indian belt, or something, of the quills, and send it home to the kids.”
They were still talking about the porcupine as they got breakfast.
“Don’t seem as though a woollen sweater sleeve and a wooden axe handle were exactly what you’d call nourishing,” said Joe.
“I’d rather have bacon,” Tom laughed. “He looks fat, too.”
As they were speaking, they heard steps in the woods, and a second later a tall, thin, tanned man in a khaki-colored uniform, with leather riding gaiters and a wide-brimmed felt hat, appeared in their little clearing. The two scouts rose quickly, in surprise.
“Hello, boys,” the man said, as his blue eyes took in them and every detail of the camp at a single piercing glance, “goin’ to have porcupine for breakfast?”
“He’ll never have my sweater for breakfast again!” Tom replied.