So now that Tom was apparently out of danger, both Samaro and the faithful cat went about singing—each in his own way—from morning till night.
One day as Tom lay in his hammock, with the end of the tent thrown up to let him breathe the fresh, pure mountain air, and feast his eyes on the wild and beautiful scenery all around the camp, he heard strange voices, and in another minute, lo! there stood before him a tall and somewhat ungainly Quaker-looking Yankee.
That he was a Yankee Tom could tell at a glance, and the first words he spoke confirmed it.
“My name’s Barnaby Blunt,” he said, throwing his rifle on the grass; “and I’m mighty sorry to see a young Britisher in such a plight as you are, sirr. But precious glad I’ll be if I can do you a service.”
Tom smiled feebly, and thanked him; but he was far too languid to talk much.
That did not matter much, for this Yankee could talk for two, or even for half a dozen at a push. And he had not squatted beside Tom’s hammock much over ten minutes before his listener had his whole history, and that of his wife and wife’s family.
But Barnaby Blunt proved himself a true friend indeed, and to his disinterested kindness Tom no doubt owed his life.
“I’m only hunting about here,” he told Tom, “and it ain’t a deal o’ matter where I goes; but out o’ this camp I don’t budge for a week, and by that time I’ll have you taut and trim enough to come along. Trust Barnaby Blunt to do the right thing for a stranger, and all the more if that stranger be a Britisher.”
Tom smiled, and feebly thanked him.
“My wife’s a Britisher; but for all that ye won’t find a longer-headed old gal about anywhere’s than ’Liza Ann. ’Liza Ann is my wife’s name, and ’Liza Ann is the name o’ my ship; and now you see what kind o’ water you’re in.” “But,” he added, after a brief pause, “I’m not going to bother you now. I’ll come again. My camp’s only just over here.”