“Will ye give me the arrow if I kin find it?” said Guy.

“Now you bet I won’t.  What good’d that be to me?”

“Will you give me your chewin’ gum?”

“No.”

“Will you lend it to me?”

“Yep.”

“Well, there’s your old arrow,” said Guy, pulling it from between the logs where it had fallen.  “I seen it go there an’ reckoned I’d lay low an’ watch the progress of events, as Yan says,” and Guy whinnied.

Early in the morning the Indians in war-paint went off on a prowl.  They carried their bows and arrows, of course, and were fully alert, studying the trail at intervals and listening for “signs of the enemy.”

Their moccasined feet gave forth no sound, and their keen eyes took in every leaf that stirred as their sinewy forms glided among the huge trunks of the primeval vegetation—­at least, Yan’s note-book said they did.  They certainly went with very little noise, but they disturbed a small Hawk that flew from a Balsam-fir—­a “Fire tree” they now called it, since they had discovered the wonderful properties of the wood.

Three arrows were shot after it and no harm done.  Yan then looked into the tree and exclaimed: 

“A nest.”

“Looks to me like a fuzz-ball,” said Guy.

“Guess not,” replied Yan.  “Didn’t we scare the Hawk off?”

He was a good climber, quite the best of the three, and dropping his head-dress, coat, leggings and weapon, she shinned up the Balsam trunk, utterly regardless of the gum which hung in crystalline drops or easily burst bark-bladders on every part.

He was no sooner out of sight in the lower branches than Satan entered into Guy’s small heart and prompted him thus: 

“Le’s play a joke on him an’ clear out.”

Sam’s sense of humour beguiled him.  They stuffed Yan’s coat and pants with leaves and rubbish, put them properly together with the head-dress, then stuck one of his own arrows through the breast of the coat into the ground and ran away.

Meanwhile Yan reached the top of the tree and found that the nest was only one of the fuzz-balls so common on Fir trees.  He called out to his comrades but got no reply, so came down.  At first the ridiculous dummy seemed funny, then he found that his coat had been injured and the arrow broken.  He called for his companions, but got no answer; again and again, without reply.  He went to where they all had intended going, but if they were there they hid from him, and feeling himself scurvily deserted he went back to camp in no very pleasant humour.  They were not there.  He sat by the fire awhile, then, yielding to his habit of industry, he took off his coat and began to work at the dam.

He became engrossed in his work and did not notice the return of the runaways till he heard a voice saying “What’s this?”

On turning he saw Sam poring over his private note-book and then beginning to read aloud: