February, 1918 
FOREST AND S /T R E A M 
79 
When Clarence found himself back at 
the home camp he was amazed. 
I have no patience with a buck that jumps 
like a jack bounces from a box. 
Dawg-gawn compasses that get hunters 
far from camp, then go wrong! 
see—we’re on the opposite side of the 
swamp from where we went in!’ I didn’t 
say nothin’, but I giggled up my sleeve— 
this was the first I knOw’d that little Clar¬ 
ence was beginnin’ to get twisted. 
“After we’d gobbled our snack we fol- 
ler’d a stream for two hours that took us 
north and at the edge of a bogan we' come 
on the tracks of a big bull. The moose wa&> 
headin’ the direction I wanted to go atad 
we trailed him. I know’d unless the big 
feller had laid down he was a cupple of 
hours ahead of us. Without snow it was 
purty hard to foller him. Long about 4 
P. M., I see that Clarence was beginnin’ to 
get fidgety. He kep’ lookin’ at his compass 
a good deal and walk’d like as if there was 
a blister on his off heel as big as a quarter. 
Finally he says to me, kinda impatient: 
< < Q EE here, David, my good man, 
where do you think you’re goin’ 
anyhow?’ ‘Who, me?’ says I in- 
nercent as a lamb; ‘why I’m follerin this 
moose Whv?’ ‘Do you realize what time 
it is?’’says Clarence. ‘Waal,’ says I, ‘if I 
could see the sun I should say it might be 
somewheres around 4 o’clock in the after¬ 
noon.’ ‘It’s 4:15,’ says Clarence consultin’ 
his watch, ‘and the sun will be down in an 
hour. As it is we can’t hope to get back 
to camp before midnight!’ ‘My gosh,’ says 
I, ‘do you think it will take us that long?’ 
‘Sure it will,’ says Clarence; ‘we’re twelve 
mile from camp if we’re a inch.’ ‘Well, 
in that case,’ says I with my face full o’ 
gloom, ‘it would be ridicklus for us to 
try to reach camp tonight.’ ‘It would be 
more ridickluser,’ says Clarence, for us to 
spend the night in this gawdforsaken hole 
without no grub nor shelter!’ ‘We got 
matches,’ says I. ‘Huh! We cant eat 
matches!’ says Clarence, then he raves on: 
‘It seems to me that a licensed guide who 
knows his business ort to have more sense 
than to be twelve mile away from camp at 
nightfall! To tell you the truth, David, I 
think you’re lost and wont admit it.’ 'Waal, 
says I with a sigh, ‘p’raps I am, but there s 
one thing I do know and that is about two 
mile ahead is a old deserted lumber camp 
where we can spend the night.’ ‘No lum¬ 
ber shack for me,’ says Clarence, mad all 
over; ‘I’m goin’ back to camp!’ and 
shoulderin’ his rifle he starts back the way 
we’d come. 
“ ‘Allright, Mister Seymour,’ says I, ‘I 
wish you good luck—and say!’ Clarence 
halts and turns ’round. ‘Take my advice,’ 
I calls, ‘and throw away that compass—if 
you don’t you never will reach camp.’ After 
tellin’ me where he wish’d I go Clarence 
plung’d out o’ sight. I set down on a log 
and fill’d my pipe. I was countin’ big on 
that last ace I’d play’d about the compass. 
If it didn’t win I’d haft to go pikin’ after 
the durn fool. Fifteen minnits pass’d and 
I was beginnin’ to get nervous when all of 
a suddint I heer’d the brush crackin’ and 
then little Clarence come bustin’ back. 
“‘Forget somepin’?’ says I. ‘No,’ he 
snaps; ‘what are YOU waitin’ for?’ ‘You,’ 
says I, knockin’ out my pipe; ‘come on, 
Mister Seymour—you’ll find that old lum¬ 
ber camp ain’t so bad after all:’ He foller’d 
me without a word. After it got dark we 
had to go slower. ‘Has your compass got 
a ^lloominated dial on it?’ says I failin’ 
over \ log. ‘No,’ says Clarence, bumpin’ 
into a tree, ‘why?’ ‘If it had,’ says I, ‘it 
would be a turrible big help to us in the- 
dark.’ Clarence cussed somethin’ wicked! 
“Bye and bye I see a light shinin’ thru 
the trees ahead, but didn’t say nothin’, I 
was waitin’ for Clarence to see it and soon 
he did. ‘Why,’ says he with joy, ‘there’s 
a light in the old lumber camp!’ ‘By gosh, 
there is!’ says I pertendin’ to see it for the 
first time; ‘now that’s queer, ain’t it!’ ‘And 
smoke cornin’ out of the chimney!’ says 
Clarence; ‘David, there must be somebody 
livin’ there!’ We both stopped and was 
sizin’ up the sitooation. ‘I wonder,’ says I, 
‘if they’d let a cupple of pore lost critters 
stay all night?’ ‘I’ll soon find out,’ says 
Clarence boltin’ ahead. I foller’d up quite 
close to the camp and peek’d out from be¬ 
hind a tree. Mister Seymour knocked at 
the door and presently a man open’d it and 
stood twixt us and the light. ‘Good even- 
in,’ sir,’ says Clarence as meek as Moses; 
‘I want to know, sir, if me and my guide 
kin stay here overnight?’ 
“‘No, you can’t,’ says the man; ‘we don’t 
put up no hoboes here!’ and with that the 
man slamm’d the door right in his face. 
(( LARENCE come back to me like a 
y, whipped pup and we stood there in 
the dark and cuss’d that man until 
no self-respectin’ snake would bite him! 
‘I wonder,’ says I at last, ‘if he’d let us 
sleep on the ground under that old horse- 
shed that’s open at both ends and ain’t got 
no roof on?’ ‘I would be willin to stand 
up again a tree all night,’ says Clarence, ‘if 
I only had a feed of that venison and 
bacon I smelt when he open’d the door.’ 
‘P’raps,’ says I cheerful, ‘he’ll sell us some- 
pin’ to eat! Why don’t you try him agin, 
Mister Seymour—you have a more pleadin’ 
way than what I have.’ Clarence thort it 
over, then he steps up and knocks agin. 
“The same feller open’d the door and 
stood there with his back to the light. 
Clarence talk’d to him like a father, ex¬ 
plainin’ to him with tears in his voice that 
we was tired, hungry, lost and fifteen mile 
from our camp. When Clarence got all 
thru the feller stepp’d back until the light 
fell on his face and says: 
“‘Where’s Dave, Mister Seymour?’ 
“‘Migawd, Bob, it’s you!’ gasps Clarence 
jumpin’ into OUR camp and throwin’ his 
ar;ns around OUR cook’s neck! 
“ ‘If you kiss me,’ hollers Bob in earnest, 
‘I’ll stab you with this bread-knife!’ Clar¬ 
ence broke away and with saggin’ jaw stood 
lookin’ around in a daze at the old familiar 
camp we’d left that.mornin’ and which he 
thort was 15 miles away a minnit before. 
I still stood outside behind the tree. After 
puttin’ it over on Clarence like that I 
didn’t know whether I’d have to fight or 
footrace. Presently he comes to the door 
and hollers out: 
“ ‘Come on in David, my good man—I 
want to make you a present of my nice, 
new compass!’—and he did.” 
****** 
A FTER this recital Old Dave knocked 
out his pipe and bunked up for 
the night while, by the light of 
a candle, I wrote a few lines to the 
home-folks. Dave would mail it at the 
settlement next day whither he had 
to go for sofne supplies. This little 
hamlet at the end of the rails was about 
18 miles distant. Dave always took two 
days for the trip which would leave me 
alone over night. 
Next morning we tramped together out 
the old tote-road a couple of miles. Dave 
kept on villageward while I headed south 
for a big tract of burnt land which he said 
was a great hang-out for deer, altho I 
had never hunted it. He told me the edge 
of it was two miles due south. As we 
parted he called back with a chuckle, 
“Newt, that burnt land is a terrible good 
place to get lost in. Got your compass?” 
“Yep,” says I with a grin. I not only had 
my compass, but I used it on that south¬ 
ward jog. I wasn’t familiar enough with 
the country to have Dave’s contempt for a 
compass so I took an occasional squint. 
Sure enough I at last came to an inter¬ 
minable tract of land which had been 
burned over years before and had grown 
up to small stuff and brush head-high. 
Above the live growth reared the blackened 
stubs of spruce, pine and hemlock. The 
surface of this tract billowed in wide roll¬ 
ing ridges of gentle ascent. After I had 
penetrated half a mile into the burnt land 
it all looked alike on every hand. 
Then suddenly I jumped a beauty of a 
buck! Before I could line the sights on 
him he waved farewell with his white flag 
and was gone! After a few minutes he 
stopped and blew—twice. I knew he hadn’t 
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