“Whose is this?”
“Bill Cope’s.”
And so on down the line. Everybody gets what chance determines for him, and there can be no charges of unfairness.
It turned very cold that night. The last thing I heard was Matt Hyde protesting to the hunchback:
“Durn you, Bill Cope, you’re so cussed crooked a man cain’t lay cluss enough to you to keep warm!”
Once when I awoke in the night the beech trees were cracking like rifle-shots from the intense frost.
Next morning John announced that we were going to get another bear.
“Night afore last,” he said, “Bill dremp that he seed a lot o’ fat meat layin’ on the table; an’ it done come true. Last night I dremp me one that never was knowed to fail yet. Now you see!”
It did not look like it by evening. We all worked hard and endured much—standers as well as drivers—but not a rifle had spoken up to the time when, from my far-off stand, I yearned for a hot supper.