THE POCKET HUNTER 



heat, unguessed until one notes the pine 

 woods dying at the top, and having scorched 

 out a good block of timber returns to steam 

 and spout in caked, forgotten crevices of 

 years before. It will break up sometimes 

 blue-hot and bubbling, in the midst of a 

 clear creek, or make a sucking, scalding 

 quicksand at the ford. These outbreaks 

 had the kind of morbid interest for the 

 Pocket Hunter that a house of unsavory 

 reputation has in a respectable neighbor- 

 hood, but I always found the accounts he 

 brought me more interesting than his 

 explanations, which were compounded of 

 fag ends of miner's talk and superstition. 

 He was a perfect gossip of the woods, this 

 Pocket Hunter, and when I could get him 

 away from " leads " and " strikes " and 

 " contacts," full of fascinating small talk 

 about the ebb and flood of creeks, the 

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