"I know one other stream that is worse, and that's the Missouri," said Harold Bird. "And as that flows into the Mississippi it makes the latter almost as bad."
As soon as they were well on their way Dick brought out the firearms which had been brought along, and examined them with care.
"You certainly have some fine weapons," said he, referring to the pistols brought by Harold Bird. "Do you do much shooting—I mean with a gun?"
"I never go shooting at all," was the young Southerner's reply, and once again the boys saw that strange look of sadness come over his face.
"Funny, you wouldn't care to go out," said Songbird, carelessly. "Must be quite some game around here."
"There is plenty of game, but" Harold Bird heaved a deep sigh. "I presume I may as well tell you my story, for you are bound to hear it sooner or later," he went on. "About four years ago my father went out hunting in the forest to the north of our plantation. He was out with two friends, but about the middle of the day the party separated and my father found himself alone. Then he saw something that to him looked like a wildcat on a big rock. He fired quickly, and when he drew closer he saw to his
