CHAPTER XII 



OLD TOM 



A daybreak our leader routed us out. The 

 frost mantled the ground so heavily that it 

 looked like snow, and the rare atmosphere 

 bit like the breath of winter. The forest stood 

 solemn and gray; the canon lay wrapped in vapory 

 slumber. 



Hot biscuits and coffee, with a chop or two of the 

 delicious Persian lamb meat, put a less Spartan tinge 

 on the morning, and gave Wallace and me more 

 strength we needed not incentive to leave the fire, 

 hustle our saddles on the horses and get in line with 

 our impatient leader. The hounds scampered over 

 the frost, shoving their noses at the tufts of grass 

 and bluebells. Lawson and Jim remained in camp; 

 the rest of us trooped southwest. 



A mile or so in that direction, the forest of pine 

 ended abruptly, and a wide belt of low, scrubby oak 

 trees, breast high to a horse, fringed the rim of the 

 canon and appeared to broaden out and grow wavy 

 southward. The edge of the forest was as dark and 

 regular as if a band of woodchoppers had trimmed 



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