Camp and Trail | Page 7

back. Whar's yer meat? Left it in de
canoe mebbe? De buck too big to drag 'long to camp--eh?"
There was a wicked rolling of Uncle Eb's eyes while he spoke.
Evidently from the looks of the sportsmen he guessed immediately
what had been the result of their excursion.
"No luck and no buck to-night!" answered Garst. "But don't roast us,
Uncle Eb. Get us something to eat quicker than lightning or we'll go for
you--at least we would if we weren't entirely played out. It isn't
everybody who can manage a hard shot as cleverly as you do, when he
can only see the eyes of an animal. And that was the one chance we
got."
No man living ever heard a further word from Cyrus as to how his
English friend bore the scares of a first night's jacking.
"Ya-as, dat's a ticklish shot. Most folks is skeered o' trying it," drawled

out Ebenezer Grout, a professional guide as well as "colored
gen'leman," familiarly called by visitors to this region who hired the
use of his hut and his services, "Uncle Eb."
"There's some comfort for you," whispered Cyrus slyly into Neal's ear.
Aloud he said, addressing the guide, "We had a spill-out, too, as a
crown-all. I'm mighty glad that this is the second of October, not
November, and that the weather is as warm as summer; otherwise we'd
be in a pretty bad way from chill. I feel shivery. Hurry up, and get us
some steaming hot coffee and flapjacks, Uncle Eb, while we fling off
these wet clothes. The trouble is we haven't got any dry ones."
"Hain't got no oder suits?" queried the woodsman. "Den go 'long, boys,
and rig yerselves up in yer blankets. Ye can pertend to be Injuns fer
to-night. Like enough dis ain't de worst shift ye'll have to make 'fore ye
get out o' dese parts."
As the draggled pair were making towards the hut, which stood about
six feet from the fire, to follow his advice, its bark door was suddenly
pushed wide open. Forth stepped, or rather staggered, another boy,
younger and shorter than Neal. His tumbled fair hair was here and there
adorned with a green pine-needle, which was not remarkable,
considering that he had just arisen from a bed of pine boughs. Sundry
others were clinging to the surface of the warm, fleecy blankets in
which he was wrapped, and his feet were thrust into a pair of moccasins.
He had the appearance and voice of a person awaking from sound
sleep.
"I say, you fellows, it's about time you got back!" he said, rubbing his
heavy eyes, and addressing the hunters. "I hope you've had some luck. I
dreamt that I was smacking my lips over a venison steak."
"Smack 'em w'en you git it, honey!" remarked Uncle Eb, while he
mixed a plain batter of flour, baking-powder, and cold water, which he
dropped in big spoonfuls on a frying-pan, previously greased,
proceeding to fry the mixture over his camp-fire.
The thin, round cakes which presently appeared were the "flapjacks"

despised by Cyrus as insufficient diet.
Without waiting to answer the new boy's greeting, the hunters had
disappeared into the bark shanty. When next they issued forth they
were rigged up Indian fashion in moccasins and blankets, the latter
being doubled and draped over their underclothing,--of which luckily
they had a dry supply,--and gathered round their waists with leather
straps. Knitted caps, usually worn when sleeping, adorned their heads.
"You see, we followed Dol's example and your advice, Uncle Eb," said
Cyrus, as they seated themselves by the camp-fire. "And I tell you these
make tip-top dressing-gowns when you're feeling a little bit chilly after
a drenching. We didn't bring along a second suit of tweeds for the
simple reason that we mean to do some pretty rough tramping with our
packs on our backs, and then a fellow is likely to grumble at any
unnecessary pound of weight he carries."
"Shuah--shuah!" assented Uncle Eb.
"And that is why we left our fishing-rods behind," continued Garst.
"You see, our main object this trip is neither hunting nor fishing. But a
creel of gamey trout from Squaw Pond would come in handy now to
replenish our larder."
"Wal, I b'lieve I'll fix up a rod to-mo-oh an' hook a few, fer de pork's
givin' out. Hain't got mich use fer trout meself. Dey's kind o' tasteless
eatin' if a man can git a bit o' fat coon or a fatty [hare], let 'lone ven'zon.
Pork's a sight better'n 'em to my mind."
While Uncle Eb was giving his views on food, he was hurriedly "bilin'"
coffee, frying unlimited flapjacks, and breaking up some crystal cakes
of maple sugar, which he melted into a sirup, and poured over