The Argosy, April 1912 — page 148: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

134 branches of an oak that had been partly leveled by an almost forgotten hurricane. The broken limbs almost stopped a path which was well defined when they looked closely. At the end of the path was a small clearing. At the back of the open space stood a well-made log shanty. “Say, professor,” whispered Fred, “where’s Leatherstocking, with Killdeer, and old Chingachgook, and U’ncas, and the others? This. clearing and shanty might have been stolen from Fenimore Cooper.” “Wot’s that?” demanded Sim Galt, turn- ing sharply. ‘“‘Wot’s stole?” “T didn’t say anything was. I only re- marked that your place reminded me of a story I’ve read,’ replied Fred, with in- creased respect for Sim Galt’s keenness of hearing. " Humph! There ain't nothin’ stole around here, I want yer ter understand. Here, Sport! Bruce, come on! He opened the door of the cuss as he called out these names in a ‘pleasanter tone than he often used to human beings. The dogs came jumping out, delighted to see their master. They had no suspicion of him—not they! And they would have been ready to tear to pieces anybody who had. Bruce was a large Scotch collie, and Sport a hound, with an unerring scent for a rab- bit wherever it might hide. You wouldn’t have thought Sport deserved his name from the look of him. He had sad, soulful eyes and a subdued demeanor. The long, droop- ing ears peculiar to his species hung flop- pingly down on either side of his face like thick braids of hair. He bore so grotesque a resemblance to an old woman that Fred privately baptized him “Mrs. McGinnis” on the spot. Bruce was just a big, blundering, lovable dog, with a shrill bark. Sport considered barking a frivolous amusement, and seldom indulged therein. “The dogs will be all right with you,” said Sim Galt in a casual way. “ Holy mackerel, but I’m hungry! Will you fellers help me ter build a fire? Then I'll get the frying-pan, an’ when I have the meat on I’ll make some coffee.” The professor and Fred had roughed it in the woods many a time before. Both pos- sessed the true spirit of hunters. So they turned to with a will, bringing in brush- wood, a pail of water from the spring, and doing whatever else there was to be done, like old-time woodsmen. THE ARGOSY. Soon there was a good fire in the cook- stove in the larger of the two rooms of the house, and Sim Galt, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, cooked supper scientifically. Fried rabbit, bacon, eggs, coffee, and bread three or four days old made a meal that was exactly right after their long climb. When they had finished there was nothing much on the table except the thick crockery and a crust or two. They cleared up between them, and then sat down for a smoke and-to rest. There was very little conversation. Sim Galt was not a talkative man, and the other two had nothing much to say just then. CHAPTER XVII. THE GRAY PIT. Sim began to stir around at five o’clock in the morning. Fred knew that was the hour, because he looked at his watch. He had been awakened by the light from a coal-oil lamp which fell upon his face from the other room through the open doorway. Sim Galt was busy preparing breakfast by that time. Then the two dogs began to bark, and there seemed to be a general bustle all around. Men who love hunting generally get at it early in the day. By six o’clock Sim Galt, Professor Shaw, and Fred Barrington had washed, put away a good breakfast, and, gun in hand, were tramping under the trees, eager for a shot at something. Sport was with them—being by long odds the best rab- bit-hunter in the party—but Bruce, the col- lie, remained behind to guard the house. “T allers let him do it,’”? remarked Sim. ‘But there ain’t likely ter be no one snoop- in’ around. If there was, they wouldn’t touch nothin’. It ain’t customary. That’s one o’ the good p’ints about livin’ on top of a mountain in the woods.” The tall hunter’s hard face cracked into a dry smile. Seeing that he meant to be jocose, red and the professor grinned in sympathy. Sport trotted in front, regardless of every- thing but the business in hand. With the alert nature of his kind, he had at once entered into the spirit of the chase, and was only anxious to turn up something for his master to shoot at. His flapping ears rose now and then, and his nose pointed well forward. He felt sure he would scent a rabbit before long. COMmilclooo S