“Wal, not more ’n four times,” said Avery, as he reached for the short, thin-bladed skinning-knife in his belt and began to deftly work the hide off the animal. Swickey, used to helping him at all times, held a corner of the hide here and a paw there, while the keen blade slipped through the fat already forming under the bear’s glossy black coat. Silently the old man worked at cutting up the carcass.
“Godfrey!” The knife had slipped and bit deep into his hand. “Why, Pop! Looks as if you done it a-pu’pose. I was watchin’ you.”
“It’s the specs. They don’t work right somehow.”
The girl ran to the cabin and returned with a strip of cloth with which she bound up the cut.
“Thar, pop. It ain’t hurtin’ you, be it?”
“N-o-o.”
“We kin bile some ile outen him,” said Swickey, as with a practical eye she estimated the results.
“Three gallon, mebby?”
“How much does thet make in money?”
“’Bout a dollar and a half.”