I don’t know whether pack-rats an’ trade-rats is the same varmints or not; but neither one of ’em has a grain o’ sense, though some tries to stick up for the trade-rats on account o’ their tryin’ to be honest. A pack-rat is about three times as big as a barn rat, an’ fifteen times as energetic. His main delight is to move things. Horace said ’at he was convinced they were the souls o’ furniture-movers who had died without repentin’ of all the piano-lamps an’ chiny-ware they had broke. A pack-rat don’t care a peg whether he can use an article or not; all he asks is the privilege of totin’ it about somewhere.
We weren’t at all sure ’at we wouldn’t be routed out in the night; so when we went to sleep, we’d stack our boots an’ hats where we could find ’em easy. Sometimes the pack-rat would toil so industrious ’at he’d wake us up an’ we’d try to hive him; but most o’ the time he’d work sly, an’ then next mornin’ we’d find our boots all in a heap on the table, or in the corner under the bunk or somewhere clear outside the shack; until we was tempted to move the shack back where it was, there not bein’ any pack-rats up there.
Then either the pack-rat reformed into a trade-rat, or else he sold out his claim to a trade-rat. Anyway, four nights after we’d been settled, we began to get trades for our stuff.
Horace was sleepin’ this whole night with us, an’ next mornin’ he wakened before light an’ started to dress so as to relieve the Friar. He had put his boots on the floor under the head o’ his bunk, an’ when he reached down for ’em he found one potato an’ the hide of a rabbit. The rabbit hide had been tossed out two days before, an’ it had froze stiff an’ had a most ungainly feel at that hour o’ the mornin’. Horace scrooged back into bed an’ pulled all the covers off Tank whom he was sleepin’ with. When Tank awoke, he found Horace sittin’ up in the bunk with the covers wound around him, yellin’ for some one to strike a light.
We all struck matches an’ finally got a candle lit. When Horace saw what it was, he was hos-tile for true, thinkin’ it was a joke one o’ the boys had put up. We had had a hard time convincin’ him o’ the ways o’ pack-rats, an’ now when we sprung trade-rats on him, he thought we were liars without mercy; but when the Friar came out to learn what the riot was, an’ told Horace it was all so about trade-rats, he had to give in.
“Well, they’ve got a heap o’ nerve,” sez he, from the center o’ the beddin’ which was still wound around him, “to lug off a good pair o’ high-heeled ridin’ boots, an’ leave an old potato an’ the shuck of a rabbit in place of ’em!”
After this Horace took a tarp into Badger’s room an’ bedded himself down in a corner, which was all around the most handy thing he could do; but the rest of us had a regular pest of a time with that rat. We couldn’t find out where the deuce he got in; but he distributed our belongin’s constant, an’ generally brought us some of Olaf’s grub-stuff in exchange. We couldn’t trap him nor bluff him, an’ it generally took a good hour mornin’s, to round up our wearin’ apparel.
One night we kept the fire goin’ an’ changed watchers every two hours. Ol’ Tank was on guard from two to four, an’ he woke us up by takin’ a shot. We found him on his back in the middle o’ the floor, an’ he claimed he had been settin’ in a chair an’ had seen the rat walkin’ along the lower side o’ the ridgepole with one o’ Tillte Dutch’s boots in his mouth. Dutch had the spreadin’est feet in the outfit, an’ we couldn’t believe ’at a trade-rat could possibly tote it, hangin’ down from the ridgepole; but Tank showed us a lot o’ scratches along the ridgepole, an’ a bruise on his chin where the boot had hit him when the rat dropped it. The’ was also a hole in the boot where his bullet had gone, but this didn’t prove anything. Still, Tank stuck to his story, so we had to apologize for accusin’ him of lettin’ his good eye sleep while he kept watch with his free one.
We stuffed burlap into the hole about the ridgepole, an’ that night bein’ Christmas eve, we all gathered in and held festivities. We danced an’ told tales an’ sang until a late hour. None of us were instrument musicians; but we clapped our hands an’ patted with our feet, an’ Kit took turns dancin’ with us, till it was most like a regular party. Mexican Slim bet that he could do a Spanish dance as long as Horace could sing different verses of his song; but we suppressed it at the ninety-first verse. Tank wanted to let him finish, in the hope it might kill the trade-rat; but we couldn’t stand any more, ourselves.
Then the Friar taught us a song called, “We three Kings of Orient are”; an’ we disbursed for the night. It was a gorgeous night, an’ me an’ the Friar took a little walk under the stars. One of ’em rested just above the glisteny peak up back o’ the rim, an’ he sang soft an’ low, the “Star of beauty, star of night” part o’ this song. He allus lifted me off the earth when he sang this way. Then he sez to me: “After all, Happy, life pays big dividends, if we just live it hard enough”; an’ he gave a little sigh an’ went in to tend to Badger-face.