vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore
with characteristic meekness, and which Grumps regarded with idiotic
satisfaction.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

REJOICINGS--THE FEAST AT THE BLOCK-HOUSE--GRUMPS AND CRUSOE COME OUT
STRONG--THE CLOSING SCENE.

The day of Dick's arrival with his companions was a great day in the
annals of the Mustang Valley, and Major Hope resolved to celebrate it by
an impromptu festival at the old block-house; for many hearts in the
valley had been made glad that day, and he knew full well that, under
such circumstances, some safety-valve must be devised for the escape of
overflowing excitement.

A messenger was sent round to invite the population to assemble without
delay in front of the block-house. With backwoods-like celerity the
summons was obeyed; men, women, and children hurried towards the central
point wondering, yet more than half suspecting, what was the major's
object in calling them together.

They were not long in doubt. The first sight that presented itself as
they came trooping up the slope in front of the log hut, was an ox
roasting whole before a gigantic bonfire. Tables were being
extemporised on the broad level plot in front of the gate. Other fires
there were, of smaller dimensions, on which sundry steaming pots were
placed, and various joints of wild horse, bear, and venison roasted, and
sent forth a savoury odour as well as a pleasant hissing noise. The
inhabitants of the block-house were self-taught brewers, and the result
of their recent labours now stood displayed in a row of goodly casks of
beer--the only beverage with which the dwellers in these far-off regions
were wont to regale themselves.

The whole scene--as the cooks moved actively about upon the lawn, and
children romped round the fires, and settlers came flocking through the
forests--might have recalled the revelry of merry England in the olden
time, though the costumes of the far west were, perhaps, somewhat
different from those of old England.

No one of all the band assembled there on that day of rejoicing required
to ask what it was all about. Had any one been in doubt for a moment, a
glance at the centre of the crowd assembled round the gate of the
western fortress would have quickly enlightened him; for there stood
Dick Varley, and his mild-looking mother, and his loving dog, Crusoe.
There, too, stood Joe Blunt, like a bronzed warrior returned from the
fight,