And yet every one of that precious party knew in his own heart that the ingenuity of man cannot compound a nectar to be compared in soulful, refreshing deliciousness with the tasteless, colorless, odorless drink of nature.
Stick to that, boys, and never touch a drop of the enemy which, put in the mouth, steals away the brains and wrecks not only the body but the immortal soul.
“I think I can go a little more of that,” said Jim, kneeling down again and helping himself as before; “I shouldn’t wonder now that if there was a tax put on water the same as on whiskey a good deal more of it would be drunk.”
Tom Wagstaff was standing a few feet farther up the streamlet, carefully scrutinizing the ground.
“What are you looking at?” asked Bob Budd.
“Aint those dents the tracks of some wild animal?” he asked, pointing to the damp, yielding earth on the other side.
Jim and Bob stepped beside him and scrutinized the marks that so interested their companion.
“By jingo!” exclaimed Jim, “they are the tracks of something, and if they were made by a man, then he’s got the queerest feet I ever seen on anybody.”
Bob stepped across the brook and stooped down that he might examine the impressions more closely.
“What do you s’pose?” he asked, looking up in the faces of his companions with a scared expression.