Connie's eyes swept the room. He pointed to a shelf: "Those shells, Ick— take 'em all!"
The scout walked over to a shelf and began to take down boxes of cartridges.
"You sold a lot of shells, didn't you?" flashed the boy. "When we went up the river you had about two hundred boxes, now you have about thirty."
"Well, wot if I did?"
Connie cut him short: "All right, boys, bring the shells and come on. How about grub? Pack what we need down to the canoe."
"Hey! Don't I git paid?" whined "Soapy," who watched as the three made up packs from the shelves.
"Requisitioned, " snapped Connie.
"Sign a requisition, then," demanded "Soapy," who had risen to his feet.
"I'll sign nothing!" exclaimed the boy, shaking his fist in the man's face. "And what's more, I'm coming back here and tend to your case—get out of my way!
"All aboard, boys—come alive!" he cried and, pushing past the swaying, blinking figure by the counter, made for the canoe.
On Lansing Creek, a mile above its mouth, the
