n like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin'
all them years ago!"

"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was
hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But
it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before
Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it,
anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."

Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference
with outstretched arms.

"I reckon it's just over twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for
the part that's missin' from th' open gap."

"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the
slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of
diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet
equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years.
So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when
William the Conqueror was King of England."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have
bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But
even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer
trapper's bin dead."

"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of
the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of
the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay,
you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that
he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."

"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then,"
observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you
gonner eat any o' that stuff--after where it come from?"

"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll
store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin'
around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if
it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland
air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party
this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer
bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen
me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a
white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've
never seen. You've never se