It was in the car of one of those narrow-gauge railroads that penetrate the wilds of the Maine woods. The yelps of the dogs in the baggage part of the smoker brought the conversation of the hunting party around to pointers. Many wonderful tales of these excellent animals had been told, when an old veteran with grizzled whiskers who had remained silent remarked:
"That last story of yourn, neighbor, puts me in mind of my dog. We were up near the border, precious nigh onto civilization, and I had played in pretty good luck, bagging a couple of brace before noon. All of a sudden I missed the dog, and I whistled and stamped round, but I couldn't raise him nohow. Finally I gave it up. I knew he must be pointing somewhere about, and thought he'd show up when I went into camp. Well, he didn't, and I finally left the region.
"I happened to get up there again 'bout three weeks later, and striking in near the same place, what did I stumble over but the dog, rigid as stone, and pointing up a tree. Yes, gentlemen, he had a bird there, and kept it till I came. When I shot it, the dog keeled over, couldn't stand it any longer. Well, three weeks is a pretty good stretch for a dog, but he was a wonder."
And the old veteran quietly puffed his pipe and silence reigned.