I tried it myself once, in desperation,
when I ran short of tobacco on a journey, and found it execrable, but
better than nothing."
"Pity we can't join you in that." remarked Harry.
"True; but perhaps since you cannot pipe, it might prove an agreeable
diversification to dance."
"Thank you, I'd rather not," said Harry; "and as for Hamilton, I'm
convinced that _his_ mind is made up on the subject.--How go the
heels now?"
"Thank you, pretty well," he replied, reclining his head on the pine
branches, and extending his smitten members towards the fire. "I
think they will be quite well in the morning."
"It is a curious thing," remarked the accountant, in a soliloquising
tone, "that _soft_ fellows _never_ smoke!"
"I beg your pardon," said Harry, "I've often seen hot loaves smoke,
and they're soft enough fellows, in all conscience!"
"Ah!" sighed the accountant, "that reminds me of poor Peterkin, who
was _so_ soft that he went by the name of 'Butter.' Did you ever hear
of what he did the summer before last with an Indian's head?"
"No, never; what was it!"
"I'll tell you the story," replied the accountant, drawing a few
vigorous whiffs of smoke, to prevent his pipe going out while he
spoke.
As the story in question, however, depicts a new phase of society in
the woods, it deserves a chapter to itself.
CHAPTER XX.
The accountant's story.
"Spring had passed away, and York Fort was filled with all the bustle
and activity of summer.
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