74 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
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 G. O. 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 settin’ up all night watchin’ for ’em. But 
we laughs him plumb out of the notion ’twell bimeby 
