"I wus jest passin' on my way home an'
thought I'd halt an' ax about that cut o' yore'n."
"Oh, I'm doing pretty well, Peter," answered Westerfelt, as he extended
his hand without rising. "But I didn't know that you ever got this far
from home."
"Hain't once before, since I went to fight the Yanks," grinned Slogan.
"Seems to me I've rid four hundred an' forty-two miles on that
churndasher thar. My legs is one solid sore streak from my heels up,
an' now it's beginnin' to attact my spine-bone. I'm too ol' an' stiff
to bear down right in the stirrups, I reckon."
"What has brought you over here?" asked Westerfelt, with a smile.
Slogan took out his clay pipe with its cane stem and knocked it on the
heel of his boot, then he put it into his mouth and blew through it
till the liquid nicotine cracked audibly. "I've been huntin'," he
said, dryly. "In my day an' time I've been on all sorts o' hunts, from
bear an' deer down to yaller-hammers, but I waited till I wus in my
sixty-fifth year--goin' on sixty-six--'fore I started out huntin' fer a
dad-blasted woman.
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