“By George!” exclaimed Kenswick, “it does sound rather wolfish.”
“Hit’s one, shore enough,” returned Quil. “We hear ’em every winter night from the door.”
“They must do damage to your sheep.”
“Reckon they do; but not much worser ’en dogs.”
“How do you destroy them?”
“Trap ’em, an’ shoot ’em.”
“Will they fight a pack of hounds well?”
“Prime fighters, you bet! But, dog my skin, I got the holt on one the other day that he didn’t shake off!”
“Hold of one! How was that?” two of us asked together.
Jake threw a rich pine knot on the fire; Kenswick ceased puffing his pipe for an instant; Sanford came from the door, and, leaning against the chimney, stuck one of his feet toward the blaze; Mrs. Jake Rose with her sister-in-law exchanged compliments in the shape of a tin snuff box, in which the latter dipped a chewed birch stick and then rubbed her teeth; and Quil began: