It was plain that both of these characters had a secret history—a history which each was determined should remain a secret with himself. The short conversation recorded above had been sufficient for this fact to become evident to both, and as if by mutual consent, neither made any further reference to it. It sufficed that they were white, civilized beings, wanderers in a dangerous territory, where neither, for an hour, could be assured of his own safety, and where both lacked the great safeguard of experience. This was enough to make them firm and fast friends at once.
"Are you baound up or down the river," queried Hezekiah Smith, refering to the Ohio, which was but a few hundred yards distant.
"Faith, it's little difference where I'm bound, as the man said when then the haythen Injuns bound him to the stake. How is it wid yerself?"
"I'm goin' daown."
"So is meself, if ye's willin' to accept of me company."
"I'm right glad to have you, for I care mighty little abaout goin' much further in this all-fired country, without some one to keep me company. It's the ornerest piece of country I ever seed in all my born days."
"As we agraas so well on the principles, be the same token, we'll agraa on the partic'lars. I'm thinkin' I've seen more of this country pra'ps, than ye has yerself, but it's a mighty little I've seen, after all. But, be the howly powers, it's meself knows enough not to kindle a fire in broad daylight, in these parts."
"But, Pat, s'pose you fall in the creek, and get wet, as I did—how in the name of human nature are you to dry yourself?"
"Dry yourself, is it?" repeated the Irishman, surveying his friend from head to foot; "and what is it ye wishes to dry yerself fur? Bedad, you'll find, if you're long in these parts, you'll have to go wet and hungry more than once."
"About what time do you suppose it might be?" asked Hezekiah Smith, after a moment's pause.