“Moose nose,” replied the girl with a look of pleasure.
“I do b’lieve—so it is! Why, where got ye it? I han’t killed a moose for three weeks an’ more.”
“Me kill him meself,” said Mary.
“You!”
“Ay, me! with me own gun, too!”
“Capital!” cried Dick, tossing back his heavy locks, and gazing at the child with proud delight. “Yer a most fit an’ proper darter for the Wild—a—ho!” sneezed Dick, with sudden violence, while Mary glanced quickly up and opened her eyes very wide. “Whisst—to—a—hah! whew! wot a tickler! I raally think the mountain air’s a-goin’ to make me subjick to catchin’ colds.”
March took no notice of the remark. His attention was at that moment divided between Mary’s eyes and a marrow-bone.
There is no accounting for the besotted stupidity at this time of March Marston, who was naturally quick-witted, unless upon the principle that prejudice renders a man utterly blind. A hundred glaring and obvious facts, incidents, words, and looks, ought to have enlightened him as to who his new friend Dick really was. But his mind was so thoroughly imbued, so saturated, with the preconceived notion of the Wild Man of the West being a huge, ferocious, ugly monster, all over red, or perhaps blue, hair, from the eyes to the toes, with canine teeth, and, very probably, a tail, that unintentional hints and suggestive facts were totally thrown away upon him. The fact is, that if Dick had at that moment looked him full in the face and said, “I’m the Wild Man of the West,” March would have said he didn’t believe it!
“How came ye by the iron pot?” inquired March suddenly, as the sight of that vessel changed the current of his thoughts.
Dick’s countenance became grave, and Mary’s eyes dropped.