“Jest what the hedgehog says,” quoth Lon tranquilly. He carried his rug into the barn; brought out another; brushed skilfully for a minute. “Hunt up some of the boys, Sam,” he advised. “Try lowerin’ your spines, and see if they won’t keep down after a while.” “Don’t want to.” “Bad as that, eh?” Sam disdained to make reply. Lon pursed his lips. “Sonny, this won’t do. It’s bad medicine. Say, where’ll you be at if you behave like this when you go to St. Mark’s?” “I’ll get along all right.” Lon brushed furiously for a little. “I--I dunno’s there’s but--but one way--for some folks to learn things,” he said jerkily. “When you’re there--jest one among two-three hundred boys--it’ll be different, now I tell you! We put up with you; they won’t.” “Huh! Who’s afraid?” “I’d be--if I was you.” “Bah!” Lon shook his head. “Sam,” he said, “if I thought this was a real in-growin’ attack, I’d be worried a heap wuss than I am. But I’m worried enough as it is. Now, I’ll give you a good tip. If you don’t want to see the other boys, go for a good, long tramp. Walk it off! That’s jest what the real hedgehog can’t do--his legs ain’t long enough.” “No fun walking--day like this.” Lon was a patient soul. “Wal, why don’t you go huntin’, then?” “What for? Rabbits?” “If you can’t get anything bigger. But you might land a shot at a deer. ’Member what day this is? First of December! Law on deer goes off, and stays off till the fifteenth.” “Oh!” said Sam. In the new interest he almost forgot, for an instant, that he had a grievance against the universe. But it was only for an instant. “But I wouldn’t have the luck to get a shot at a buck, or a doe, either. The crowd will have started out early, and scared every deer within ten miles of town,” he concluded pessimistically. “Don’t be too sure of that.” “’Tis sure!” Sam insisted. “Then what’ll I do for a gun?” “Got your own, haven’t you?” “What! Try for a deer with a ‘twenty-two’?” “Why not? It’s big enough, if it gets to the right spot.” Sam fell back to his second line of defense. “Well, there’ll be no deer anywhere near town.” “Who says so?” “I do!” snapped the boy. Lon bent toward him, and lowered his voice. “Sam, a feller was tellin’ me last night about a herd that’s been feedin’ in close--right back of old Bill Marlow’s barn--big buck and three-four more. Old orchard in there, you know. And that’s so nigh to town most folks won’t look for ’em there. But there they be--or there they were as late as yesterday, anyhow. And, by gum! if I was you, I’d scout out that way on the chance--that is, if your mother says it’s all right,” he added hastily. In spite of himself, Sam’s ambition was fired. A shot at a deer! That would be worth while. “You--you’re certain they were there yesterday?” he asked. “Bill Marlow told me himself. And you can be sure of one thing--he didn’t tell many other folks. Bill ain’t no gossip.”