“Whar’s de dog, mars’r?”
“What dog? thar ain’t no dog with us.”
“Are ye done shore, mars’r?”
“Sartin. Thar ain’t no dog hyar, is thar men?”
Several answered in the negative. Cato feebly raised himself on his elbow and looked up.
He thought he recognized his questioner; he surely had seen him somewhere. And the others too, their faces were familiar. Was he asleep and dreaming? who were they?
“Whar am de fiah—am it all over?”
He heard a low voice remark: “What in thunder is he talkin’ ’bout? darn me ef I don’t think he’s done gone mad.” Then it was raised interrogatively.
“Thar ain’t b’en no dog nor no fire—leastways my peepers don’t see ary sign of any.”
It was a new voice that spoke, and Cato knew it for the voice of Old Sol. Rising on his knees he gazed around on his companions; they were the settlers, gazing at him moodily. He started up and grasped the veteran trailer by his horny hand.