Story 1—Chapter XV.
A Chance Shot.
“Say, what precious fools we all air!” exclaimed Seth Allport all of a sudden, without any reference to anything they had been speaking about, when the hunting party stopped a moment to rest after a long and weary tramp over the seemingly-endless prairie, during which they had not caught sight of bird or beast worthy of a charge of powder and shot. “What precious fools we all air!” he repeated with the air of a Solon, and shaking his head solemnly with portentous gravity.
“Please speak for yourself,” said Ernest Wilton jokingly. “Why this wholesale condemnation of our unfortunate selves? For my part, I should have thought that we were more to be pitied than blamed for our want of success.”
“Oh, do you?” replied Seth gruffly—albeit he was as good-humoured as usual. “Then that’s all you know about it. Don’t you kinder think it raal smart neow for us to be a wearin’ out shoe-leather when we’ve a heap o’ mules eatin’ their heads off and bustin’ theirselves in that shanty o’ theirn agin the house for want of work, I reckon?”
“Phew!” whistled Mr Rawlings through his teeth, his face assuming a mingled expression of surprise and amusement. “I declare I forgot all about the animals, I suppose because we have not lately had any occasion for their services. But they are in good condition, I’ve no doubt, as they have had literally nothing to do since they helped to carry our traps here in the fall, while they’ve fared better than us during the winter, for though forage has been scarce work has been scarcer, when our rations had sometimes to be limited. Oh, yes, they are certain to be filled out by this time, and been well looked after by our friend Jasper here,” nodding kindly towards the negro steward as he spoke, that worthy having charge of the pack-mules amongst his other manifold duties as general factotum.
“Iss, Massa Rawlings,” interposed Jasper, glad of the opportunity of joining in the conversation, “dey am prime. Dat obstropolus mule, Pres’dent Hayes, gib me one good kick in tummick dis marnin’ when I’se feedin’ him. Um jest as sassy as dat niggah Josh, iss, massa, and so is all de oder mules, sah.”
“You’d better let your friend, that thaar mule, hove a shy with his heels at your woolly pate next time,” said Seth in his customary grim way. “I don’t think you’d kinder feel a kick thaar! But, I say, giniral,” he added, turning to Mr Rawlings, “I don’t see why we couldn’t go a huntin’ on hossback as well as afoot. It would be easier nor walkin’, I guess, hey?”