"He means a wildcat, Steve!" exclaimed one of those who listened with all
his nerves on edge.

"Or, perhaps, it might have been a panther," remarked Steve, a tinge of
eagerness in his voice, for Steve wanted to distinguish himself while on
this camping trip by doing some wonderful exploit.

"And here we stand like a lot of gumps, when our guns are within reach.
Right now that terrible beast may be making ready to jump on us."

As the short-legged boy spoke he made a flying leap in the direction of
the tent that had been erected.

Both of his campmates were at his heels, and doubtless quite as anxious as
himself.

There was a confused series of sounds following their disappearance. Then
they came crawling out again, each one gripping some sort of weapon.

"Now, show me your blessed old tiger cat!" cried Steve, handling a
double-barreled shotgun valiantly.

"Yes, who cares for a measly wildcat; let him step up and get what's coming
to him!" declared Bandy-legs, who was waving the camp hatchet ferociously.

"I'm b-b-badgered if I c-c-care what it is right now. This rifle belonging
to Max h-h-holds six bullets, fellows," spluttered Toby.

"Listen!" exclaimed Steve, with more or less authority in his voice.