alkative mood, for until far
into the night the man from the city lay on his back on the springy
boughs, listening and smoking, keenly alive to every word the old man
uttered.

"Most times now," he went on, as he leaned forward and patted the dog,
"I let the old dog have his way--don't I, dog?--but then it warn't a
week ago that 'twas t'other way. Me and him was follerin' a buck on
Bald Mountin, and he got set on goin' by way of West Branch, 'stead of
travellin' a leetle mite to the south, what would have brung us aout,
as I figger it, jest this side o' Munsey's. Wall, sir, arter we'd been
a-travellin' steady, say, for more'n four hours the old feller give
in. Says he to me, 'I'm beat,' says he, julluk that, and he stopped
and throwed up this gray snout of his'n to the wind and then he says,
kinder 'shamed like, 'I led ye off consid'ble, hain't I?' says he. I
see he was feelin' bad 'bout it, and I says, says I, 'It warn't your
fault,' says I, 'we come such a piece; a dog's jest as liable to be
mistook as a humin'; and arter that it warn't more'n an hour 'fore
we was out to the big road and poundin' for home. Thar, now"--here he
pushed the old dog gently from him--"lie down and take another snooze;
ye're gittin' so blamed lazy ain't no comfort livin' with ye."

Thayor bent the closer to listen. Every moment brought some new
sensation to his jaded nerves. This making a companion of a dog and
endowing him with human qualities and speech was new to him.

The Clown now cut in: "And it beats all how ye kin understand him when
he talks," he laughed, too loyal to his friend to throw doubt on the
old trapper's veracity, "and yet it's kind o' cur'ous how a dog as old
as him and that's had as much experience as him kin git twisted julluk
some pusillanimous idjit that ain't never been off the poor-house
road."

Thayor laughed softly to himself, not daring to bring the dialogue to
a close by an intervention of his own.

"Now, there's Sam Pitkin's woman," the Clown continued with increased
interest, "she's jest the same way; hain't never had no idee of whar a
p'int lays; takes sorter spells and forgits which way't is back to the
house. Doc' Rand see her last September when he come by with them
new colts o' his'n. 'You're beat aout,' said he, 'and there ain't no
science kin cure ye. Ye won't more'n pull aout till snow flies if ye
don't give aout 'fore that'--so he fixed up some physic for her and
she give him a dollar and arter