This action was taken as a declaration of hostilities by a formidable body guard the guide had brought with him. A shrill bark, followed by a series of growls that were meant to be very fierce, came from somewhere about Big Thompson’s person, and the next instant a very diminutive head, surmounted by a pair of fox-like ears and covered with hair so long that it almost concealed the knowing little eyes that glared upon him, suddenly appeared from between the buttons of the guide’s overcoat, and a row of sharp white teeth gleamed in the firelight.
Oscar started back with an exclamation of astonishment, while Tom and the guide gave vent to hearty peals of laughter.
“Perfessor,” said the latter, thrusting his hand inside his overcoat and drawing out the animal to which the head belonged, the smallest, homeliest specimen of a Scotch terrier that Oscar had ever seen, “that thar big elk is jest as good as skinned an’ stuffed already. I call him Pink, on account of the color of his ha’r—which is black. What do you think of him fur a huntin’ dog?”
“A hunting dog!” repeated Oscar, still more astonished. “Do you mean to tell me that you are going to catch that magnificent elk with such a miserable little——Humph! You can’t get a fair view of him without the aid of a microscope, and a fair-sized rat would scare him to death. Now hand out my mail.”
Big Thompson complied this time, and he had a good bundle of it, too, when it was all put together—papers from Eaton and Yarmouth, letters from his mother, Sam Hynes, and Leon Parker, others from Professor Potter and the committee, and the rest were from the officers of the fort, who praised him extravagantly for the courage he had exhibited in his encounter with the grizzly, the particulars of which they had heard from Big Thompson.
The papers were passed over to Tom, and Oscar also gave him all his letters to read, with the exception of two, addressed in a neat, feminine hand, which were put safely away in his pocket, only to be taken out again at intervals and read and reread until they were almost worn out.
The boys became silent after the letters appeared, for the news they contained made them homesick.
Big Thompson, finding that nothing more was to be got out of his employer that night, cooked and ate a hearty supper and went to bed, his little hunting dog curling himself up with him under the blankets.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
FAREWELL TO THE HILLS.
“I say, perfessor, what in creation brung that thar brother of yours out to this country, and throwed him into the company of such a varmint as that Lish?” asked Big Thompson, as Oscar joined him at the woodpile the next morning, where he stood taking an observation of the weather.