I'm so hungry that I could chew nails!" cried Cyrus,
springing from behind the bushes, and reaching the, camp-fire with a few
strides, Neal following him.
"Sakes alive! yonkers; is dat you?" cried the darkey, uprearing his
gray figure. "I'se mighty glad to see you back. Whar's yer meat? Left it
in de canoe mebbe? De buck too big to drag 'long to camp--eh?"
There was a wicked rolling of Uncle Eb's eyes while he spoke. Evidently
from the looks of the sportsmen he guessed immediately what had been the
result of their excursion.
"No luck and no buck to-night!" answered Garst. "But don't roast us,
Uncle Eb. Get us something to eat quicker than lightning or we'll go for
you--at least we would if we weren't entirely played out. It isn't
everybody who can manage a hard shot as cleverly as you do, when he can
only see the eyes of an animal. And that was the one chance we got."
No man living ever heard a further word from Cyrus as to how his English
friend bore the scares of a first night's jacking.
"Ya-as, dat's a ticklish shot. Most folks is skeered o' trying it,"
drawled out Ebenezer Grout, a professional guide as well as "colored
gen'leman," familiarly called by visitors to this region who hired the
use of his hut and his services, "Uncle Eb.
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