That’s why he shook hands with ye. Ding his young pelt! Git him. Fetch him back, or I’ll larrup ye.”
Long before he had finished Bub was flying like a deer down the rough way, ever watching for the movement of the bushes and underbrush ahead and below him. A dry sob clutched his throat as he ran on and remembered how he had disdained Stanley’s silent farewell. That the youth would ever use such heroic means to make good his fault had not entered Bub’s imagination. Eminently practical himself he was not prepared to understand an emotional nature.
Stanley did not know he was pursued until Bub came close upon him in a diminutive clearing. “Hold on, Stan. Come back,” gasped Bub.
“Go back yourself. I’ll be along soon,” replied Stanley, lowering his eyes.
“You’ll come now,” cried Bub, springing forward and clutching his arm.
It was in vain Stanley sought to shake him off. “Let me go, Bub. Let me go,” he gritted. “I know what I’m doing. Go back.”
“Sure, we’re both going back,” panted Bub, increasing the pressure of his grasp. “It’s no use, Stan; you were the stronger in camp, be-
