"
Stacy squared himself, holding the opening of the bag close up to the
burning candle.
"That's right. A little more to the left with the opening," directed
Cad, who had constituted himself the master of the hunt. "Now hold
it. You other two lads work around the outside. One of you go to the
north, the other to the south about a quarter of a mile, then work
gradually in, beating the bushes, slamming these clubs against every
tree you come to big enough to hold a 'possum. In that way you'll
drive them in."
"Yes, sir," answered Tad and Ned very solemnly.
"And go slow. Just take a step at a time, or some of the birds may get
by you."
"A 'possum isn't a bird," corrected Stacy.
"You'll think it is after you've hunted one for an hour or two. Now git
going, you beaters. Imagine you're beating the bush for lions. That
will keep you from going to sleep on the job."
Chunky's eyes grew large.
"See here, you don't want to stand up straight," rebuked Morgan. "You
must lean over just like this," bending himself almost double with his
nose close to the ground.
For a half hour Stacy Brown maintained his position. By this time his
back was aching, perspiration was running down his face and neck in
rivulets. Insects of many shapes and forms, attracted by the light,
were hopping about, some getting into the fat boy's eyes, nose and
ears, others getting under his clothing.
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