"Herb Heal, here's a bully parcel for you," said the Jehu, with a
knowing grin. "Came from Boston, I guess. I war booked to take
pertik'lar care of it."
And Herb, feeling his strong fingers tingle, undid many wrappers, and
hauled out, before the eyes of Greenville loungers, a rifle such as it
is the desire of every Maine woodsman's heart to possess.
A best grade, 45-90, half-magazine Winchester it was, fitted with
shot-gun stock and Lyman sights, and bearing a gleaming silver plate, on
which was prettily lettered:--
HERB HEAL
IN MEMORY OF OCTOBER, 1891.
Underneath was engraved a miniature pine, its trunk bearing three sets
of initials.
Herb stalked straight off a distance of one mile to Doctor Buck's house,
pushed the door open as if it had been the door of a wilderness camp,
and shot himself into Doc's little study.
"Look what those three gamy fellows have sent me," he said; and his eyes
were now like Millinokett Lake under a full sun-burst. "I thought the
old one was a corker, but this"--
Here the woodsman's dictionary gave out.
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