The city fellows
sensibly tried to follow his example; but again and again one of them
would shake himself, and rise stealthily, convinced that he heard the
blood-curdling screech ringing through the silent night.
It was nearly morning before fatigue at last overmastered every
sensation, and the three fell into an unbroken sleep, which lasted until
the sun was high in the sky. When they awoke, their sense of smell was
the first sense to be tickled. Fragrant odors of boiling coffee were
floating into the tent. One after another they scrambled up, threw on
their coats, and hurried out to find their guide kneeling by the
camp-fire on the very spot from which he had hurled his axe at the lynx
a few hours before. But now his right hand held a green stick, on which
he was toasting some slices of pork into crisp, appetizing curls.
"'Morning, boys!" he said, as the trio appeared. "Hope your early rising
won't opset ye! If you want to dip your faces in the stream, do it
quick, for these dodgers are cooked."
The "dodgers" were the familiar flapjacks.
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