rattling of the chain that held it told of the victim it had made.  The hind leg of the otter was held firmly by the trap, but he sprang fiercely at Ned as he came near, and the sharp teeth snapped together within a few inches of the boy’s face as the short chain straightened out.  The boys went back to their camp, where Ned made a cage out of the box in which they kept most of their stores, and then returned to their captive.

“How are you going to get him into the cage, Ned?”

“Hold his head down with a forked stick, take him round the neck with my hand so he can’t bite, take the trap off of his leg and poke him in the cage.”

“Ned!  He’ll eat you up.  I’d rather tackle a wildcat.”

“Just watch him eat me up.  You stand by, when I’ve got a good hold, and take off that trap quick as you can.  Then I’ll drop him in the box and—­there you are.”

“No, we won’t be there—­not all of us.  I wish I was the otter.  He’ll have all the fun.”

Ned got his forked stick and, after a long struggle, in which Dick had to help with another stick, caught the otter’s neck in the fork and held the creature firmly to the ground.  Then putting his left hand around its neck he held the head down in the mud, and with his right hand clutched the skin of the animal’s back.

“All right, Dick, take off the trap.”

“Trouble’s goin’ to begin.  Here goes,” said Dick, and the trap was removed.

Like a flash of light, as Ned lifted the little beast, it thrust its head through the loose skin of the neck and turning backward bit Ned’s hand to the bone four times in something less than a second.  The otter would have been free, but that Dick, who was looking for trouble, had it by the neck with both hands and in spite of its biting, scratching and struggling, it was dumped in the box and the door of its cage closed.

“Been having fun!  Haven’t we?” said Dick, ruefully, as the boys, scratched, bitten and bleeding, stood looking at each other, after their victory.  Ned’s hand was disabled and so painful that Dick paddled the canoe, with its cargo of boys and pet otter, to their camp.

“Now, Ned,” said Dick, “I’m the surgeon and you are to be respectful and call me Dr. Dick.  Let me see your left hand first.  I’ve got to decide whether to chop it off, or to try and save some of it.”

“You look as if you needed some fixing up yourself, Dick.”

“That will be all right.  You shall have a chance at me—­if you survive the operation.”

Dick got a bottle of carbolated vaseline from their stores, tore up one of Ned’s shirts and put the strips in boiling water.  He then washed Ned’s wounds with warm water and soap and dressed and bandaged them.  His own injuries were less serious than Ned’s, although more numerous, and although he spoke lightly of them, his companion insisted on their having as careful treatment as his own.  When the bandaging was over, Dick said: