74 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CEUISEE 



matic and, for the rest of us, highly diverting man- 

 ner. 



We were sitting around the fire on the first even- 

 ing in our new camp. Brown, with a wink at Bert, 

 drawled : 



"Seems to me I smell somp'thin' pow'ful like a 

 phoby-cat. Don't you all notice it?" 



Now as a matter of fact, though the inquiry was 

 made with no expectation of an affirmative answer, 

 at this precise moment a penetrating and unpleas- 

 ant odour recognisable at once as emanating from the 

 animal referred to and doubtless the result of our 

 dogs' researches nearby, did indeed pervade the air 

 about us. 



Brown chuckled gleefully. His assault upon our 

 nerves was to be reinforced by a dash of extremely 

 realistic atmosphere. 



"Reminds me of the night," he said, "when ole 

 Sam Saffel got skunk-bit." 



"That was in ninety-five, wa'nt it?" asked Bert, 

 his faithful coadjutor. 



" 'Bout then," said Brown judicially. "Let's see, 

 there was Slim Hitchcock, Hinray Betts, Sam an' 

 me. We was range-brandin' calves for the Gr. 0. S. 

 outfit over on Bear Creek. 



"Come jest such an evenin' as this here, and we 

 all smelt skunk right after supper. Ole Sam was 

 pow'ful scairt of skunks and he wanted we should 

 take turns sett in' up all night watchin' for 'em. But 

 we laughs him plumb out of the notion 'twell bimeby 



