76 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
whilst he was sleeping. A-course he woke up right 
away, an’ so did the rest of us. We wa’nt right sure 
th’ skunk was a phoby-cat, seein’ he got away, but 
to be on the safe side Bill an’ me helt Tom an’ Sam 
Morgan run a piece of red-hot bailin’ wire thro’ the 
holes in his lip so’s to clean ’em out good. He ain’t 
never had no trouble sence, only havin’ t’wear a 
moustache—which don’t hardly compare for hard 
luck with bein’ dead.’’ 
This tale provoked argument, but Bert stoutly 
maintained its truth. Indeed, I have since had oc- 
casion to verify it. 
While we talked, the penetrating, unpleasant odour 
that was before barely noticeable had become 
stronger. And this or something else woke me sev- 
eral times during the early part of the night. I was 
just dozing off after one of these wakeful spells 
when a most extraordinary rumpus outside brought 
me bolt upright and wide awake. Slipping on a pair 
of moccasins I ran over to Brown’s tent, from which 
issued agonised cries, and was just in time to meet 
the packer hastily emerging. 
I thought for a moment he had lost his mind. He 
seemed as far as I could make out to be trying with 
his right arm to pull the left from its socket, pro- 
claiming meanwhile in ear splitting tones that he 
was ‘‘skunk-bit.’’ 
Frazer, Conway, Wallace and Wetherby appeared, 
Horace in a high state of excitement, waving his two 
Colts menacingly. But no skunk was to be seen. 
