"Most wise Lieutenant," smirked Pisew, "what wisdom hast thou originated this day?"
"That's a queer thing, isn't it?" remarked Carcajou, nodding his broad forehead towards the baited gun.
Blue Wolf looked, took a wide detour, and approached it from the side. The others followed in his footsteps.
"Years have given you sagacity, Mister Rof," commended Wolverine. "From the side always, eh? Danger sits on top, and Death waits in front."
"My nose finds a Bait!" answered Wolf.
"It's Meat!" added Pisew, working his mustached upper lip like a cat.
"I smell powder!" declared Carcajou, quietly.
"The evil breath of the Ironstick?" queried Blue Wolf. "Perhaps the White Death-powder makes that peculiar odour," he hazarded.
"No," asserted Carcajou; "François knows better than that: to smell that Bait costs nothing; to bite it makes a heavier price than either of us cares to pay. François knows that we smell first, and bite last; and if our noses detected aught amiss would we pull the string with our teeth?"
"Wise Lieutenant!" murmured Lynx.