, the marcy of the
Lord or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. I'll go to the
door, and see what he wants. It's sartinly too cold to let a man stand
in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark
the Trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open.

"What is it, Wild Bill? what is it?" he called. "Be ye drunk, or be ye
sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin
within a dozen rods of ye?"

"Sober, John Norton, sober. Sober as a Moravian preacher at a
funeral."

"Yer trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, Wild Bill, for the
last month, or the Dutchman at the clearin' has watered his liquor by
a wrong measure for once. But ef ye be sober, why do ye stand there
whoopin' like an Indian, when the ambushment is onkivered and the
bushes be alive with the knaves? Why don't ye come into the cabin,
like a sensible man, ef ye be sober? The signs be ag'in ye, Wild Bill;
yis, the signs be ag'in ye."

"Come into the cabin!" retorted Bill. "An' so I would mighty lively,
ef I could; but the load is heavy, and your path is as slippery as the
plank over the creek at the Dutchman's, when I've two horns aboard."

"Load! What load have ye been draggin' through the woods?" exclaimed
the Trapper. "Ye talk as ef my cabin was the Dutchman's, and ye was
balancin' on the plank at this minit."

"Come and see for yourself," answered Wild Bill, "and give me a lift.
Once in your cabin, and in front of your fire, I'll answer all the
questions you may ask. But I'll answer no more until I'm inside the
door."

"Ye be sartinly sober to-night," answered the Trapper, laughing, as he
started down the hill, "fur ye talk sense, and that's more'n a man can
do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle.

"Lord-a-massy!" exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled, and
saw the huge box that was on it. "Lord-a-massy, Bill! what a tug ye
must have had! and how ye come to be sober with sech a load behind ye
is beyend the reckinin' of a man who has knowed ye nigh on to twenty
year. I never knowed ye disapp'int one arter this fashion afore."

"It is strange, I confess," answered Wild Bill, appreciating the humor
that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. "It is strange,
that's a fact, for it's Christmas Eve, and I ought to be roaring drunk
at the Dutchman's this very minit, according to custom; but I pledged
him to get the box through jest as he wanted it done, and that I
wouldn't to