"Take that, you pelt thief, and that! Let me ketch ye at my traps agin an' I'll jest waste a bullet on one o' yer legs. Kim up here an' steal my skins, will ye? Thar's another fur ye. Oh, howl all ye want to, I'm larnin' ye a lesson."
The hearty kicks with which he punctuated this speech brought forth a whoop of pain from the recipient on each occasion.
"Why, it's Pet Peters!" exclaimed Frank.
There was a snap.
"Thank you!" cried Will, with a satisfied grin; he had succeeded in taking a snapshot of the struggling couple while their faces were exposed.
"It'll do as evidence when I want ter send this critter to jail, which I'll sartin do if he ever comes a foolin' 'round my traps agin. I bet that snake Bud Rabig set him up ter it. Skeered to come hisself, an' sends a boy. Now, you git!"
This time the kick was so tremendous that it actually lifted Andy Lasher's crony clear off his feet, and started him in a mad flight along the edge of the swamp. As he ran wildly he kept bellowing in pain, and holding both hands back of him.
The temptation was more than Will could stand, and another "click" announced that he had secured a second retreating view of the poacher.
