AN UNSUCCESSFUL HUNT 



at his own door to get an overcoat and a hot foot- 

 stone (tenderfoots were not all just out of Yan- 

 keeland, it appeared), we were fairly on our way. 



Pretty soon I broached the matter of the pig- 

 eons. The driver sniffed. I shouldn't find any. 

 As for the distance to the Sand Spring, it was 

 nearer ten miles than five. In that case, I per- 

 ceived, it was well I had a pair of horses to draw 

 me. Twenty miles, with the road muddy to des- 

 peration, would have been more than so doubtful 

 a chance was worth. (But " twenty miles " was a 

 gross exaggeration, if my legs told anything like 

 the truth on the return.) 



Fortunately I had brought a light overcoat 

 along, and, with a venerable bed-comforter 

 wrapped about our knees, we made the trip in a 

 satisfactory degree of comfort, asking and an- 

 swering questions, and discussing all sorts of sub- 

 jects, from Roman Catholicism and almond or- 

 chards (in lovely bloom along the roadside) to 

 gall-stones and appendicitis, for the driver, though 

 a cheerful body, seemed inclined to let his mind 

 run upon rather gruesome topics. Some men are 

 like that, it would be hard to say why. Perhaps 

 their ancestors were butchers or body-snatchers, 

 or followers of some similar line of industry. 

 After a while, in an indifferent tone, I inquired 

 whether he knew anything about magpies. Yes ; 

 "3 



