OCR Text |
Show he I climbed the trail like a leaping Chilkoot. As I approached my tent I could see a figure inside wearing a backpack. I crept closer and watched him rummage through the bags, his back toward the entrance. I sprang like a cat, grabbing his legs. He went down, completely surprised, and I sat on his lower back. Trembling, I pulled my knife out of its sheath and, reaching over his pack, held it to his neck, "Let's talk," he whined, "After you return my supplies," I said, "Or I'll run outside now and alert the camp." I think we both recognized each other about the same time. "James, son," he sputtered. "It's your old dad here." It was Mr. Con from the Guardian. I slid off his back, and he rolled over and sat up. We both sat looking at each other. "I didn't know this was your tent, son," he said quickly. His beady eyes darted toward my knife and then the entrance. "You won't tell on your old dad, will you? I'm just trying to make a living like everyone else. You'll have a little mercy, eh?" "Don't call me 'son,'" I said, gripping the knife, "Besides," he continued, "I was just paying a visit. Sorry I surprised you so." |