woodsman in about seventeen million years. What’d ye shoot the loon for? Did he ever do ye any harm?”
“I thought one could drink his blood,” ventured Stanley, trying to get his cue from Bub’s worried face.
“Ye two just scat! Clear out! I want to think,” commanded Abner, giving them his back.
“For mercy’s sake, Stan, what made you say anything so idiotic as that,” complained Bub, as they walked back to the boarding house.
“What should I have said?” cried Stanley, now thoroughly exasperated. “Try to tame the loon, tie a message to his leg? Why did he bring in the gun if he didn’t mean for me to shoot?”
“He was just trying you,” sadly explained Bub. “Of course, if you knew the A B C about the woods you’d know the loon was pointing for water. That’s what you should have said. And you should have added that while following that course you’d keep your eye peeled for the Indian cucumber plant, so’s to dig up one and stop your thirst. It’s no use for me to try to describe it to you—”
“Not a bit,” interrupted Stanley. “It’ll be much better to wait and show me one.”
