“Sit down, Rivers,” I said. “We’ve been so interested in our talk, we didn’t realize the hour.”
“Just as soon stand,” he murmured. “Going back to bed right away.” He turned to Tom.
“That pesky lynx woke me. Got up. Looked ’round ’n as I went ter go back ter bed, I could a’ sworn somethin’ passed the winder. Didn’t see nothin’ when I walked over here though. Guess it’s a’right.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “We’ll get that wild bird to-morrow night, eh Charlie?”
“Sure as I live,” he grinned. “Too much of a nuisance ter live,” he said walking toward the door; and said good-night.
“What a charming outlook that fellow has on life?” Brent said, after Tom had locked the door. “Charity to animals hasn’t a place in his scheme of things.”
“Aw,” Tom said, in a defensive tone. “You just don’t understand him, Brent, he’s a woodsman. They’re all that way.”
“Well you’re not,” Brent said, “and I’d say you were thoroughly woodsy.”
“No, I’m not! Not the way he is. He’s truly native and I’m just an artificial product. Too chicken-hearted to be a real born scout like Rivers.”
“Well, then, give me your chicken-hearted scouts, Tommy. Artificial products are ofttimes nicer than the real article and in this case I like the real human touch in a mere scout better than the real born scout in a mere human.”