"Blood, eh? for the shot the varmint gin you," said the old woodsman, in a great state of excitement.
"I thought so," said the Senator, "but what do you think it was?"
Not being blood, we were all puzzled to know what the blazes it could be. When Riley observed—
"I suppose you had—"
"Melted the deer fat which I had stuck in the breast of my hunting shirt, and the grease was running down my legs until my feet got so greasy that my heavy boots flew off, and one hitting the dog, nearly knocked his brains out."
We all grinned, which the "member" noticing, observed—
"I hope, gentlemen, no man here will presume to think I'm exaggerating?"
"O, certainly not! Go on, Mr. ——," we all chimed in.
"Well, the ground under my feet was soft, and being relieved of my heavy boots, I put off with double quick time, and seeing the creek about half a mile off, I ventured to look over my shoulder to see what kind of a chance there was to hold up and load. The red skin was coming jogging along pretty well blowed out, about five hundred yards in the rear. Thinks I, here goes to load any how. So at it I went—in went the powder, and putting on my patch, down went the ball about half-way, and off snapped my ramrod!"
"Thunder and lightning!" shouted the old woodsman, who was worked up to the top-notch in the "member's" story.