They had laid loving hands upon the hay,
remarking, "Well, I _guess!_" when they heard from a low stable
at the very back of the lot:
"I say, you chaps, what are you doing there?"
A reflective carter, who had been twisting two straws, ambled
out of the shadow of the stable and prepared to do battle.
"Say, old man, can't we sleep in your hay just to-night?" argued
Morton. "We're Americans. Came over on a cattle-boat. We
ain't got only enough money to last us for food," while Mr.
Wrenn begged, "Aw, please let us."
"Oh! You're Americans, are you? You seem decent enough. I've
got a brother in the States. He used to own this stable with
me. In St. Cloud, Minnesota, he is, you know. Minnesota's some
kind of a shire. Either of you chaps been in Minnesota?"
"Sure," lied Morton; "I've hunted bear there."
"Oh, I say, bear now! My brother's never written m--"
"Oh, that was way up in the northern part, in the Big Woods.
I've had some narrow escapes."
Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg, sang somewhat
in this wise the epic of the hunting he had never done:
Alone.
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