“All right.  We’ll leave that off; but you must do the other punishments.

“Will I still be Hawkeye?”

“Yes.”

“All right.  I’ll do it.”

XXV

The Three-Fingered Tramp.

Broad-shouldered, beetle-browed, brutal and lazy was Bill Hennard, son of a prosperous settler.  He had inherited a fine farm, but he was as lazy as he was strong, and had soon run through his property and followed the usual course from laziness to crime.  Bill had seen the inside of more than one jail.  He was widely known in the adjoining township of Emolan; many petty thefts were traced to him, and it was openly stated that but for the help of a rich and clever confederate he would certainly be in the penitentiary.  It was darkly hinted, further, that this confederate was a well-to-do Sangerite who had many farms and a wife and son and a little daughter, and his first name was William, and his second name Ra——­ “But never mind; and don’t for the world say I told you.”  Oh, it’s easy to get rich—­if you know how.  Of course, these rumours never reached the parties chiefly concerned.

Hennard had left Downey’s Dump the evening before, and avoiding the roads, had struck through the woods, to visit his partner, with important matters to arrange—­very important for Hennard.  He was much fuddled when he left Downey’s, the night was cloudy, and consequently he had wandered round and round till he was completely lost.  He slept under a tree (a cold, miserable sleep it was), and in the sunless morning he set out with little certainty to find his “pal.”  After some time he stumbled on the trail that led him to the boys’ camp.  He was now savage with hunger and annoyance, and reckless with bottle assistance, for he carried a flask.  No longer avoiding being seen, he walked up to the teepee just as Little Beaver was frying meat for the noonday meal he expected to eat alone.  At the sound of footsteps Yan turned, supposing that one of his companions had come back, but there instead was a big, rough-looking tramp.

[Illustration:  “Well, sonny, cookin’ dinner?”]

“Well, sonny, cookin’ dinner?  I’ll be glad to j’ine ye,” he said with an unpleasant and fawning smile.

His manner was as repulsive as it could be, though he kept the form of politeness.

“Where’s your folks, sonny?”

“Haven’t any—­here,” replied Yan, in some fear, remembering now the tramps of Glenyan.

“H-m—­all alone—­camped all alone, are ye?”

“The other fellers are away till the afternoon.”

“Wall, how nice.  Glad to know it.  I’ll trouble you to hand me that stick,” and now the tramp’s manner changed from fawning to command, as he pointed to Yan’s bow hanging unstrung.

“That’s my bow!” replied Yan, in fear and indignation.

“I won’t tell ye a second time—­hand me that stick, or I’ll spifflicate ye.”