"How are you, Jim? You don't appear glad to see me," it said, pushing a cold, bony hand toward him.
"Just wait—wait till I fasten this gate and then I'll go up to the block-house with you," replied the ranger, working at the massive bolts, and at the same time, glancing furtively over his shoulder, at what he believed to be a veritable ghost beside him.
"Now, give us your hand, Jim, for, if ever a white man was glad to see another, I am glad to see you: Jeh-u-u-u! ain't it cold?" exclaimed the apparition desperately, as a regular spasmodic shock shook him, and apparently ejected the words in a most unceremonious hurry from his rattling teeth. Peterson could not refuse the proffered hand; but, as he took it, he felt a cold chill crawl, from the finger ends of the ghost, up through his arms, clean to the crown of his head where it seemed to halt, gather in a big mass, and then separating into a number of arrowy needles, shoot through every part of his system, even contracting his very toes.
"How—how'r yer—'tis cold—let's go in," he said, turning toward the block-house, and walking hurriedly away.
We should like to know whether any of our readers have been in a situation, where their greatest desire has been to get ahead as fast as possible, and yet they felt ashamed to either look behind them, or to increase their gait. If they have, they can appreciate the peculiar sensations of the really brave-hearted Peterson. Imagine yourself, on a dark night, when within a few rods of your own door, where you know your friends are peering into the darkness in expectation of your momentary arrival—we say imagine that, just at that moment, you hear a footfall behind you! You start and your heart commences to throb, and you hastily debate whether it is best to walk unconcernedly along, as though such a thing as fear never entered your head, or to glance behind you, and break into a regular run for the door. But ridicule, more potent than fear, prevents you, and you walk, it is true, a little faster, but as you push open the door, you cannot help shoving yourself in rather hurriedly, as your friends judge.
It was with feelings somewhat similar to these, that Peterson walked toward the block-house, his unwelcome visitor stalking after him.
"H'yer we is," he exclaimed, as he ushered him into the warm glowing room of the block-house, where the hardy backwoodsmen sat conversing.
"A dismal night, gentlemen," said Drake, bowing to the men, and approaching the fire, against which he turned his back and gazed composedly at the men. "A reg'lar snorter this night is; thought I'd freeze to death. Jeh-u-u-u! that fire feels good. But I can't blame you for your tardiness and suspicion in such times as these. Though Mad Anthony has taught the Indians manners, it seems that they forget them once in a while."
The hunters were not men to sit silent and unsocial when a stranger claimed their hospitality. They saw it was no ghost, but a veritable flesh and blood human being who stood before them. He was a tall, cadaverous-looking man, his face all hair and eyes, and yet his voice showed him to be a good-natured gentleman. His garments were soaked with water, which slowly dropped from his ragged shirt, and every turn of his clothes, and steamed constantly from them on account of his proximity to the fire. He was without weapons of any kind. Without waiting as long as it has taken us to introduce this description, the commander replied:
"A cold and dismal night indeed. Let me give you something to warm you within, for it is plain you need it."