“Old man Wallowby,” chuckled Lon. “Dunno jest what made me think of him. Long before the time of you boys he was.”
“I remember him,” said Mr. Kane. “Queer old codger as ever was. Folks used to say there was only three things he never seemed to get around to—washin’, workin’, or worryin’.”
“Jesso!” Lon agreed; then made correction: “Say, though! There was one time he was worried, fast enough. Ever hear tell o’ the night he fit the bear?”
“Fit a b’ar?” echoed the foreman. “No; new one on me.”
Several of the lumberjacks, who had been listening to the talk, drew closer.
“There’s two-three b’ar hangin’ ’round No. 3 camp,” one of them volunteered.
“Never mind them, Jake,” interposed Mr. Kane. “Le’s hear about old Wallowby’s run-in.”
Lon ran a glance about the expectant group.
“Wal,” he drawled, “I dunno’s I can tell the story the way Wallowby told it to me, but I’ll try. You know, the old humbug uster give out that he was a nat’ral bonesetter, and uster wander about, foragin’ off the country and pretendin’ to look for broken bones. That’s how he got wind of old Calleck, who must ’a’ been a good deal of the same breed. Only Calleck was a yarb doctor, and a bigger freak’n Wallowby himself. He was all the while prowlin’ through the woods, diggin’ up roots for his medicines; and he called himself a hermit; and he built himself a mighty queer house off by his lonesome, a stone house, and——”
“I’ve seed it,” one of the men broke in. “What’s left of it’s standin’ over on the South Fork, not ten mile from here. But ’twa’n’t all stone. Calleck got tired o’ luggin’ rock, and topped it off anyhow he could.”