e was to me worth a year spent
amid streets, alleys, and sky-scraping buildings; so I fixed my
headquarters at Greenville, and have spent most of my time in the
wilderness."

"Where every trapper, guide, and lumberman knows Dr. Phil Buck, whom
they disrespectfully and affectionately call 'Doc,'" put in Cyrus. "And
many a poor fellow owes his life or limbs to Doc's knowledge and nursing
in some hard time of sickness, or after one of the dreadful accidents
common in the forests."

Dol could well understand this; for he now was benefiting by Dr. Phil's
lively desire to relieve suffering, and was silently breathing blessings
on his head. The doctor had bathed his puffy feet in warm water taken
from Joe's camp-kettle, and was anointing them with a healing salve,
after which he tucked them into a loose pair of slippers of his own.
Meanwhile, he chatted pleasantly.

"This isn't the first time that your friend Cyrus and I have run against
each other in the wilds," he said, "nor the first time that we've camped
together, either. Bless you! we could make you jump with some of our
stories. Do you remember that night in '89, Cy, when you, with your
guide, came upon me lying under a rough shelter of bark and spruce
boughs, which I had rigged up for myself near Roaring Brook, on the side
of Mount Katahdin?"

"I guess I do remember it," answered Cyrus, laughing.

"A mighty hungry man I was, too, that evening," went on Doc; "for I had
no food left but one little package of soup-powder and a few beans. I
had been trying all day to get a successful shot at a moose or deer, and
muffed it every time. It wasn't the lucky side of the moon for me. Well,
you behaved like the Good Samaritan to me, then, Cy; shared your meat
and all your stuff, and we slept like twin brothers under my shelter."

"Yes; and a bear visited our temporary camp in the night!" exclaimed
Cyrus, bursting into uproarious mirth over some over-poweringly funny
recollection; "he made off with my knapsack, which I had left lying by
the camp-fire. I suppose old Bruin thought he'd find something good in
it to eat; but he didn't. So he tore my one extra shirt and every
article in the pack to shreds, and chewed up the handle of my razor, so
that I couldn't shave again until I got back to civilization, when I was
as bristly as a porcupine."

"Perhaps Bruin tried to shave himself," suggested Dol.

"At all events, he had wisdom enough not to cut his throat," answered
the s