"On the 24th of April he sold his horse—said 'I'm just fifty-seven today, hale and hearty—it would be a PRETTY howdy-do for me to be wasting such a trip as that and such weather as this, on a horse, when there ain't anything in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains, to a man that IS a man—and I can make my dog carry my claim in a little bundle, anyway, when it's collected. So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, make my little old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own hind legs, with a rousing good-by to Gadsby's.'
"On the 22d of June he sold his dog—said 'Dern a dog, anyway, where you're just starting off on a rattling bully pleasure tramp through the summer woods and hills—perfect nuisance—chases the squirrels, barks at everything, goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords—man can't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature—and I'd a blamed sight ruther carry the claim myself, it's a mighty sight safer; a dog's mighty uncertain in a financial way—always noticed it—well, GOOD-by, boys—last call—I'm off for Tennessee with a good leg and a gay heart, early in the morning.'"
There was a pause and a silence—except the noise of the wind and the pelting snow. Mr. Lykins said, impatiently:
"Well?"
Riley said:
"Well,—that was thirty years ago."