“The world is Vagabondia
To him who is a vagabond.”
“Who’ll tell us the first yarn?” inquired Sam, as his pipe drew freely.
“Stranion begins,” said Magnus quietly. Magnus was a man of few words; but when he opened his mouth, what he said went. He was apt to do more and say less than any one else in the party.
“Well, boys,” said Stranion, “if Magnus says so, here goes. What shall I talk about?”
“Who ever heard of Stranion talking about anything but panthers?” jeered Ranolf.
“Well,” assented Stranion, “there’s something in what you say. The other night I was thinking over the various adventures which have befallen me in my devotion to birch and paddle. It surprises me to find what a lot of scrapes I’ve got into with the panthers. The brutes seem to fairly haunt me. Of course fellows who every year go into the Squatook woods are bound to have adventures, more or less. You get cornered maybe by an old bull-moose, or have a close shave with some excited bear, or strike an unusually ugly lynx, or get spilled out of the canoe when you’re trying to run Toledi Falls; but in my case it is a panther every time. Whenever I go into the woods there is sure to be one of these creatures sneaking around. I declare it makes me quite uneasy to think of it, though I’ve always got the best of them so far. I’ll bet you a trout there are one or two spotting me now from those black thickets on the mountain; and one of these days, if I don’t look sharp, they’ll be getting even with me for all the members of their family that I have cut off in their sins.”
“Oh, you go along!” exclaimed Sam. “You’re getting sentimental. I can tell you, I have killed more trout than you have panthers, and there’s no old patriarch of a trout going to get even with me!”
Sam’s practical remark went unheeded; and in a few moments Stranion resumed,—
“You see, boys, the beasts began to haunt me in my very cradle so to speak. Did any of you ever hear mother tell that story?”