Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1 50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 3. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
In the Enemy’s Country 
S OMEHOW they, of the previously estab¬ 
lished party at Jobes’ old-fashioned hotel, 
were inclined to resent the coining of a 
woman into their midst. This wild, restful spot, 
tucked away among the hills, always had been 
remarkable for its treedom from the presence 
of the female sex. Men sought it in the fall 
with their rifles, and in the spring with fishing 
rod and basket. A man met them at Pond Sta¬ 
tion with a three-seated wagon and drove them 
eleven miles inland over a jolting corduroy road 
away from home and civilization. A man took 
their baggage at the door of the hotel and as¬ 
signed them to their rooms. A man was in the 
kitchen to cook their meals and serve them at 
table. There was a man to make their beds, 
cut their hair and wash their linen. Fresh ar¬ 
rivals, if strangers to the guests in possession, 
were regarded by the latter as intruders; so 
when Jobes appeared on the scene one day and 
announced that “Miss Mollie Marvin was corn¬ 
in’ in,” the boys became more or less sulky 
about it and agreed that the charm of the place 
would be thoroughly destroyed by this incursion. 
The journey to Jobes’ place was a thing 
not lightly to be considered, even by a man of 
strong courage, for it required a multitude of 
turns and stops to reach it, with only blazed 
By JESSIE B. PURDY 
trees to mark the way. True, the way was en¬ 
livened by the song of the forest bird, the chirp 
of the squirrel, and the murmuring of some wild 
stream whose bank looked pleasant as a resting 
place from the toil of travel. As the men sat 
around discussing Miss Marvin’s coming, they 
hoped she would see none of the charm in a 
forest life, and that the guide who was to bring 
her in would lose the trail. 
The “guests in possession” this season were 
five men. There was Leslie Melvin, who was 
something of a poet, had written lines for his 
home paper and an occasional magazine, and 
had come up there to seek inspiration among the 
hills. There was Walker, a musician and com¬ 
poser, who never liked to be pressed too closely 
as to his accomplishments; Bob Payne, a thor¬ 
oughbred newspaper man; Dick Buchanan, an 
all-round gentleman sport, and lastly, but not 
least, as far as grumbling was concerned, old 
Bill Livermore, a dyspeptic. At all times Jobes 
desired above everything else harmony among 
his friends, and no matter how recent his ac¬ 
quaintance with a visitor to his hotel, he at once 
became “the cleverest man he had ever met.” 
But somehow he had not taken very kindly to 
Livermore, who on his arrival in the middle of 
the summer, begged that all the doors and win¬ 
dows might be shut; growled out that the place 
laid too low; that the atmosphere was so heavy 
he had to make a hole in it to breathe through; 
that the beauty of the flowers was only a clear 
sign of the dampness of the atmosphere, and 
that the river was a mere duck puddle. Jobes 
resented all this as a cruel aspersion on his place, 
intended to take away its character, and seemed 
pleased when the other boys dubbed him “old 
Bilious Liver.” Payne, the newspaper man, felt 
that Livermore had justly won the title on ac¬ 
count of his sneaking down into the hotel office 
every morning before any of the others were 
up, and grabbing on to his paper, leaving only 
the advertisement portion on the table. As to 
Jobes himself, he was a philosopher in his way 
as well as an original. He was about fifty-eight 
years old, and his frame was of that robust, 
hardy and enduring kind that is found mostly 
among the woodsmen of the country. The re¬ 
finements of society, he knew nothing about. He 
had spent his life in the back settlements and in 
the woods. He was a strong-minded man by 
nature and a thoughtful one. His solitary 
ramblings, his forest experience, had made him 
a reflecting and a wise man in his way, yet kind 
and gentle withal. He was very fond of jolly 
people, and was always delighted when Buch¬ 
anan was one of his guests, because, as he ex¬ 
pressed it, “there never was such a fellow for 
a quiet country place as ‘Buck,’ for he keeps 
every one in such good spirits.” The other 
boys were inclined to doubt Jobes’ good opinion 
of “Buck,” for there was not a day—not an 
evening—passed without everyone being on the 
verge of a row' with someone in consequence of 
Buck. He had a most good-humored and pleas¬ 
ant knack of setting everyone by the ears and 
then retiring, as it were, from the field of battle, 
occasionally returning conversationally to see 
how the fight was going on and joining in, sid¬ 
ing first with one then the other, just to keep 
the game alive. His laugh was overpoweringly 
noisy, and he seemed to keep his laughs, as it 
were, in shells and suddenly exploded them close 
to the other fellow’s ear. When he went into 
convulsions of laughter, he usually grabbed your 
arm, which he squeezed and shook during his 
recital of venerable jokes as though they were 
the raciest things he had heard in years. He 
said the rudest things in the heartiest manner, 
and as he hadn’t an idea of what delicate con¬ 
sideration meant, nobody liked to attempt a 
repartee with him because he was sure to reply 
with something peculiarly objectionable. The 
other boys soon found out they couldn’t do 
much in the cutting retort line against a strong 
I SOME DAY IT MIGHT COME TO THIS. 
