The wavering image of the overhanging forest was fading in the somnolent, foam-dappled eddies circling lazily past Lost Farm Camp when Jim Cameron’s team, collars creaking and traces clinking, topped the ridge and plodded heavily across the clearing. Smoke swayed to the pitch and jolt of the wagon, head up and nose working with the scent of a new habitation. As the horses stopped, David and Smoke leaped down. Beelzebub immediately scrambled to his citadel in the eaves, where he ruffled to fighting size, making small unfriendly noises as he walked along the roof, peering curiously over the edge at the broad back of the bull-terrier. Cameron unhitched the team leisurely, regretting the necessity for having to stable them out of earshot from the cabin. “I’ll find out what a ‘loungeree’ is or bust,” he confided to the horses, as he whisked the rustling hay from mow to manger.
“We been keepin’ supper fur you,” said Avery, as David came in, laden with bundles. “Set right down. Jim won’t keep you waitin’ long if he’s in his reg’lar health. But where, this side of the New Jerusalem, did you git the dog?”
“That’s Smoke. Here, Smoke, come and be introduced.”
The dog allowed Swickey and her father to pat him, but made no overtures toward friendship. Avery eyed the animal critically.
“He’s a born fighter. Kin tell it by the way he don’t wag his tail at everything goin’ on. Likewise he don’t make up to be friends in a hurry, like some dogs, and folks.”
“I hope he won’t bother Beelzebub,” said David, as Smoke, mouth open and tongue lolling, watched the kitten peek at him from the doorway.
“They’ll be shakin’ hands afore long,” said Avery. “Thet cat’s got spunk and he ain’t afraid of nothin’ reason’ble, but he ain’t seen no dogs yit. He’ll get sorter used to him, though.”
When Cameron came in he glanced at the end of the table. None of the bundles had been opened. He ambled out to the wash-bench and made a perfunctory ablution. Judging by the sounds of spouting and blowing which accompanied his efforts, he was not far from that state of godliness which soap and water are supposed to encourage, but the roller-towel, which he patronized generously, hung in the glare of the lamp, its limp and gloomy folds suggesting that nothing remained for it but kindly oblivion. In fact, David, who succeeded Cameron at the wash-basin, gazed at the towel with pensive interrogation, illumined by a smile as hand over hand he pulled it round and round the creaking roller, seeking vainly for an unstaked claim.
Supper over, the men moved out to the porch and smoked. Swickey, busy with the dishes, glanced frequently at the bundles on the table, wondering which one contained her precious book and the “specs fur Pop.” The dishes were put away hurriedly and she came out and joined the men.
“Now, Swickey,” said her father, “you jest tell Jim how you shot the ba’r. Me and Dave’s got them things to put away and you kin keep Jim comp’ny.”