110 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



" What the hunters call a * porcupig, ' " said I. 



"Sure?" 



"Entirely so." 



" Why does he make that noise ? " 



" It is a way he has of cursing our fire, " I replied, 

 "I heard him last night also." 



" Where do you suppose he is ? " inquired my 

 companion, showing a disposition to look him up. 



"Not far off, perhaps fifteen or twenty yards from 

 our fire, where the shadows begin to deepen." 



Orville slipped into his trousers, felt for my gun, 

 and in a moment had disappeared down through the 

 scuttle hole. I had no disposition to follow him, 

 but was rather annoyed than otherwise at the dis- 

 turbance. Getting the direction of the sound, he 

 went picking his way over the rough, uneven ground, 

 and, when he got where the light failed him, poking 

 every doubtful object with the end of his gun. 

 Presently he poked a light grayish object, like a 

 large round stone, which surprised him by moving 

 off. On this hint he fired, making an incurable 

 wound in the "porcupig," which, nevertheless, tried 

 harder than ever to escape. I lay listening, when, 

 close on the heels of the report of the gun, came ex- 

 cited shouts for a revolver. Snatching up my Smith 

 and Wesson, I hastened, shoeless and hatless, to the 

 scene of action, wondering what was up. I found 

 my companion struggling to detain, with the end of 

 the gun, an uncertain object that was trying to crawl 

 off into the darkness. "Lookout!" said Orville, 

 as he saw my bare feet, " the quills are lying thick 

 around here." 



