“Not a gun? Why, what a disbelieving young Jew you are?”
“I’m not a Jew,” I replied indignantly. “I’m a gentleman.”
“That’s good,” exclaimed the stranger, with a laugh. “Then you mean to assert that a Jew can’t be a gentleman? You’d better mind what you’re saying, sir, for I’m a Jew.”
I looked at him with surprise, for I had my own idea of what a Jew was on account of a Jew pedlar coming to our lodge twice a year with a pack of all sorts of odds and ends to sell; and certainly, as I looked at the tall, handsome-looking stranger, I saw no similarity between him and the pedlar. I had lived hitherto in a most matter-of-fact world, where such a thing as a joke was rare, and what is termed “chaff” was unknown, so I did not understand the meaning of these remarks, and certainly felt no inclination to smile.
“Do you live in these parts?” asked the stranger.
“Yes,” I replied. “Do you know the forest well?”
“Every part of it.”
“Now come here,” said the stranger. “Do you see those tall pines—those on that hill?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what is the name of that place?”