A little green-eyed Irish girl, five days old, was named Pythagorina Podina Mulgarry. The happy father called personally on Pod and asked him to act as godfather at the baptismal service, Sunday afternoon. The impressive ceremony took place at the cabin of Miss Pythagorina, as the aged grandmother wished to witness it. Pod said he was somewhat embarrassed about attending, since he had forgotten almost all his Latin, but he arranged with one of the pall bearers to give him nudges and kicks when it was expected of him to make a response, and so he got through fairly well—better than the kid did. He said the babe was an unruly child, and kicked so frantically when the priest took her in his arms that two flatirons were tied to its feet to keep them down. It was simply nervousness, because the high altitude affected the child's nerves. So when the priest was handed the tiny thing in swaddling clothes and held it over the barrel that served as the font, the poor girl was frightened and squirmed, and suddenly slipped out of the priest's arms into the barrel and sank out of sight. There was great excitement and surprise because the flatirons didn't float, and the undertaker, or what you call 'em, overturned the barrel of water and set everybody afloat, drenching the sponsors and guests.
Pod said the scene was without a parallel; he was soaked to his equator; the half-christened, half-drowned Pythagorina Podina was picked up from the flood with a tablespoon, and the ceremony finished; then she was rolled on the barrel to get all the water out of her, and put to bed with hot flatirons at her feet to prevent croup and mumps. Then the wake broke up. I don't believe the child understood a word that the priest said; Pod didn't.
That night he got up a fine supper, and invited some old friends. He bought a big porterhouse steak, thick and tender, and personally broiled it on his patent folding stove. Just when everything was on the table and the guests were finding stones and tin plates to sit on, Don, not having had a thing to eat for an hour, coolly pulled the hot steak off the platter and dropped it on the ground. Pod didn't say anything, though, but just forked it on to the platter and scraped off some dry grass and a sliver and a bug, and carved it up and generously put it on the ladies' plates. The ladies looked at the dog, and then at Pod, not knowing which to thank, then feeling sensitive about accepting the best part of the steak, insisted upon Pod's having one of their pieces and Coonskin the other; and both men being kind and gallant accepted the compliment, and all fell to eating. But the guests didn't eat much. They said they had just had dinner. You could see plainly from their appetites that they were telling the truth. After supper Don feasted on the tougher parts of the steak, and we donks were fed the scraps of potatoes and bread and tin tomato and peach cans. When the banquet was over the guests went home.
Pod devoted Monday morning to business, and took in a good stock of supplies, and after lunch we set out on the trail to Florisant, about twenty miles away. About six o'clock we went into camp on the margin of a famous petrified forest. Pod objected at first, because of the scarcity of fire-wood.
"Lots of petrified wood chips lying around," I remarked; "and they'll last. Ordinary wood burns up too fast."
"Bright idea!" exclaimed Pod. And Coonskin went to work gathering petrified wood for the supper fire. "The only trouble will be in starting the fire," said Pod. "Just as soon as it's once going, it ought to burn smoothly enough—might pour coal oil on the chips. What do you say, Coonskin?"
Coonskin's opinion didn't benefit Pod much. His hard-wood fire wasn't very satisfactory, but with some dry brush the men got the meal under way. Next morning we visited the noted petrified stump, measuring upwards of forty-five feet in circumference. Several saws were imbedded in it, for many futile attempts had been made to take off some slices for the Denver Exposition. It has been estimated by various ornithologists, botanists and entomologists that the stump is millions of years old. I think they were guessing at it, for I couldn't see the rings, and even if I had seen them with a telescope a fellow couldn't live long enough to count them.
We journeyed until ten at night, stopping at Florisant only a few minutes to buy a crate of peaches. Several times I had a suspicion that we had been misdirected. When we came to the end of a narrow wood-road I was sure of it. We went into camp, and before breakfast a timberman called on us.
"You kin trail through the timber to Pemberton," said he to Pod, "and then cut through to Fairplay, er you kin go back the way ye came."
"What do you say?" Pod inquired, turning to Coonskin.