And so it happened that, ten days or so later, while the three were enjoying the hospitalities of the Sinclairs and “their crowd” in the Quaker City, Herb, who was still in Greenville, waiting for a fresh engagement as guide, was accosted by the driver of the coach from Bangor.
“Herb Heal, here’s a bully parcel for you,” said the Jehu, with a knowing grin. “Came from Boston, I guess. I war booked to take pertik’lar care of it.”
And Herb, feeling his strong fingers tingle, undid many wrappers, and hauled out, before the eyes of Greenville loungers, a rifle such as it is the desire of every Maine woodsman’s heart to possess.
A best grade, 45-90, half-magazine Winchester it was, fitted with shot-gun stock and Lyman sights, and bearing a gleaming silver plate, on which was prettily lettered:—
HERB HEAL
In Memory Of October, 1891.
Underneath was engraved a miniature pine, its trunk bearing three sets of initials.
Herb stalked straight off a distance of one mile to Doctor Buck’s house, pushed the door open as if it had been the door of a wilderness camp, and shot himself into Doc’s little study.
“Look what those three gamy fellows have sent me,” he said; and his eyes were now like Millinokett Lake under a full sun-burst. “I thought the old one was a corker, but this”—
Here the woodsman’s dictionary gave out.