A FIGHT TO THE FINISH 



BY E. G. CHUPNEY. 



There are two kinds of campers : 

 men who, camping in a well-selected 

 camping ground with a well-appointed 

 outfit with all the comforts of home, 

 try to bring on a few mild hardships 

 for the fun of the thing; and practical 

 workers who camp in the woods when- 

 ever duty calls them, and camp because 

 there is no other way to live. 



Ours was a working camp. There 

 is a big difference between them. I 

 have even heard a city camper go so 

 far as to say that camping was no fun 

 if you had a cook. He would not have 

 found anyone in our outfit to agree 

 with him. We all wanted a good cook 

 and we had him. He ruled the camp 

 with an iron hand, but no one ever 

 grumbled ; he was boss of the situation 

 and we all knew it. Cook for a camp- 

 ing outfit is not a very high-sounding 

 title, but the qualifications for the po- 

 sition are many and various. Mike 

 had them all — all but one, he could not 

 sing. Ten years a sailor and fisherman, 

 he could spin yarns till bed-time every 

 night ; five years a cook in the Maine 

 lumber woods, he could tell the biggest 

 hunting stories on record and make 

 a plum pudding out of corn meal and 

 kerosene. His ready wit and good 

 nature kept every one in good humor. 



We had been eating baking powder 

 biscuits for about a month — and the 

 proverb that "familiarity breeds con- 

 tempt" was never more true than when 

 applied to a baking powder biscuit — 

 when something happened that was to 

 be the source of many an evening's 

 amusement in the old camp. We made 

 a strike for light bread ! A demand for 

 light bread in the heart of the back- 

 woods with a camp outfit which would 

 have thrown most cooks into a tower- 

 ing rage and probably have gotten us a 

 good cussing, but Mike was tickled to 

 death with the suggestion. He would 

 make some yeast ! 



No one ever knew exactly how he 

 started that yeast, but that he had 

 started it was soon evident to every- 

 one. A suspicious-looking brown jug, 

 located in a dark corner of the cook 

 tent, gagged with a heavy wooden plug, 

 and throttled with a piece of tar rope, 

 would utter vicious, suppressed shrieks 

 at the most unexpected moments. A 

 man would stop his fork in mid-air 

 as he gazed anxiously with open mouth 

 into the dark corner. At every omnious 

 warning Mike would go into a mild 

 form of convulsions and gurgle almost 

 as much as the jug. Rubbing his hands 

 together gleefully, he would say, "Boys 

 and boys, but that powerful stuft !" 



This reign of terror had lasted a 

 couple of days when Mike announced 

 that he was going to open the jug 

 at once. The news that the famous 

 jug was to be opened spread over the 

 camp like wildfire and the clans as- 

 sembled to see the fun. Since no one 

 wanted to be too near the jug or too 

 far away to see the whole show, the 

 attempt to find the exact distance for 

 the best result caused a nervous shift- 

 ing of the little semi-circular crowd in 

 front of the cook tent. Mike was the 

 most important man in the State as 

 he strutted about the tent getting things 

 ready for the conflict and laughing con- 

 temptuously at our fears. 



We had always known that Mike 

 was a great man according to his own 

 accounts, but now he was proving it. 

 When he finally picked up that jug 

 there was a certain deference and re- 

 spect in his manner that we had never 

 before seen him accord to anything — 

 alive or dead. He handled it gently at 

 arm's length, while the audience saw 

 to it that there was always a clear space 

 in the line of the plug. Never before 

 did an unholy, inanimate object — if 

 that jug could be called inanimate — 

 receive such respectful treatment. 



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