Mr. Hampton nodded grave confirmation.
“Well, I know of a place that’s paradise,” said Long Jim, impressively. “An’ I’ll take ye all there, an’ ye can spend the Winter—warm, game, everything there. Only thing, like I tol’ Artie here, is I hate to have to take them skunks o’ half-breeds in there. They’ll be a-comin’ back later an’ ruin the country.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Mr. Hampton. “What is it you are talking about?”
“Don’t blame ye,” said Long Jim. “Think maybe the ol’ man’s crazy, don’t ye? Don’t blame ye for that, neither. But, look here, night’s dyin’ an’ if ye stand up an’ look where I’m pointin’ ye’ll see somethin’.”
Mr. Hampton arose wonderingly, and the others also stood up.
“Thar,” said Long Jim, stretching an arm to the westward. “What d’ye see?”
“Why—a great bank of fog,” said Mr. Hampton, after gazing intently. “How strange. Fog in Winter. I don’t understand.”
“An’ ye all think that’s fog, hey?” asked Long Jim, turning to the others.
Nodding heads answered.
“Well, it ain’t,” he said. “That’s the vapor from hot springs.”