The most astonishing of all in the place were its visible tenants—a multitude of cats. Some were huddled on benches, their assorted colors and markings composing a strange medley. Others stalked about the cabin. Many sat before the embers in the fireplace. A half-score were grouped about the hogshead and its occupant, with their tails wound round their feet, and were solemnly observing the work of reanimating the stranger. Here and there among taciturn felines of larger growth little spike-tail kits were rolling, cuffing, frolicking and miauing. For a moment the scene seemed a part of his delirium.
Parker turned round to survey his benefactor. He found him to be an old man, shaggy of beard and hair. A pointed cap of fur covered his head.
He was dressed in rough garb—belted woolen jacket, trousers awkwardly patched, leggings rolled above the knee, and yellow moccasins. Although he was the ordinary type of the woods recluse, there was kindliness in his expression, as well as a benignant gleam in his eye that was not usual.
“How d'ye feel?” he asked, solicitously.
“As if I were being pounded with mallets and torn by pincers.”
“All over?”
“Yes, all over!” snapped Parker, rather ungraciously.
“That's good,” drawled the old man, rubbing more snow briskly on the aching flesh. “I guess I'm goin' to save ye, down to the last toe.”
“If aches will do it I'm saved!” groaned the young man.
“I wouldn't 'a' gi' a copper cent for ye when I got ye here to camp,” the old man proceeded, “but I've done the very best I could, mister, to fetch ye round. I hope ye ain't a-goin' to complain on me,” he added, wistfully.