s a girl over a baby.

"Well, when daybreak came, I shot a nice big fat Mr. Zip Coon out of an
old pin-oak, and we started for home like old pardners. Old as he was,
he played like a puppy around me, and when we came in sight of the
house, he ran on ahead and told the folks what he had found. Yes, you
bet he told them. He came near clawing all the clothing off them in his
delight. That's one reason I always like a dog and a poor man--you can't
question their friendship."

A circus was in progress on the other side of the wagon. From a large
rock, Jake Blair was announcing the various acts and introducing the
actors and actresses. Runt Pickett, wearing a skirt made out of a
blanket and belted with a hobble, won the admiration of all as the only
living lady lion-tamer. Resuming comfortable positions on our side of
the commissary, a lad named Waterwall, one of Sponsilier's boys, took up
the broken thread where Forrest's wrangler had left off.

"The greatest dog-man I ever knew," said he, "lived on the Guadalupe
River. His name was Dave Hapfinger, and he had the loveliest vagabond
temperament of any man I ever saw. It mattered nothing what he was
doing, all you had to do was to give old Dave a hint that you knew where
there was fish to be caught, or a bee-course to hunt, and he would stop
the plow and go with you for a week if necessary. He loved hounds better
than any man I ever knew. You couldn't confer greater favor than to
give him a promising hound pup, or, seeking the same, ask for one of
his raising. And he was such a good fellow. If any one was sick in the
neighborhood, Uncle Dave always had time to kill them a squirrel every
day; and he could make a broth for a baby, or fry a young squirrel, in a
manner that would make a sick man's mouth water.

"When I was a boy, I've laid around many a camp-fire this way and
listened to old Dave tell stories. He was quite a humorist in his way,
and possessed a wonderful memory. He could tell you the day of the
month, thirty years before, when he went to mill one time and found a
peculiar bird's nest on the way. Colonel Andrews, owner of several large
plantations, didn't like Dave, and threatened to prosecute him once for
cutting a bee-tree on his land. If the evidence had been strong enough,
I reckon the Colonel would. No doubt Uncle Dave was guilty, but mere
suspicion isn't sufficient proof.

"Colonel Andrews was a haughty old fellow, blue-blooded and proud as a
peacock, an