Exactly thirty-six hours after the satisfactory formation of the above resolution, March Marston galloped furiously towards the door of his mother’s cottage, reined up, leaped to the ground, seized the buffalo-hump that hung at his saddle-bow, and entered with a good deal of that impetuosity that had gone far to procure for him the title of madman. Flinging the bloody mass of meat on the floor he sat down on a chair, and said—
“There, mother!”
“Well, you are a clever fellow,” said Mrs Marston, drying her hands (for she had been washing dishes), and giving her son a hearty kiss on the forehead.
“Clever or not clever, mother, I’m off to the Rocky Mountains in two days.”
Mrs Marston was neither dismayed nor surprised. She was used to that sort of thing, and didn’t mind it.
“What to do there, my boy?”
“To see the Wild Man o’ the West.”
“The what?”
“The Wild Man o’ the West, mother.”
It is needless to try our reader’s patience with the long conversation that followed. March had resolved to preach a discourse with the “Wild Man o’ the West” for his text, and he preached so eloquently that his mother (who was by no means a timid woman) at length not only agreed to let him go, but commended him for his resolution. The only restraint she laid upon her son had reference to his behaviour towards the Wild Man, if he should happen to meet with him.