fully shaping the handle of his club more to his liking.
“But we are wasting valuable time, precious time,” expostulated Stanley, starting to rise.
“We’re wasting time when you keep peeking back over your shoulder,” said Bub. “We’ll rest till you’re the same Mister Malcolm that had brains enough to hide the strip of beech bark and who was more level-headed than I was when we were tied up in camp. Now, my son, take this to heart: you are just as safe here, now, as that young spruce. Our danger doesn’t commence till Nick learns the truth.”
“But we should use that time in escaping,” protested Stanley.
“Not the way you’ve been escaping,” sharply corrected Bub. “You’re not escaping when you leave a swath of broken bushes, upturned stones, and heavy footprints in every dead log you come to. Look back there for fifteen feet. It looks as if a cyclone had passed here. Why, even a cow could follow us. Now, if you’re going on in that way, we might as well wait here and put up a fight before we’re exhausted.”
“I’ll be more careful,” promised Stanley, humbly.
