In the edge of the balsam and spruce Langdon and Otto sat smoking their pipes after supper, with the glowing embers of a fire at their feet.

The night air in these higher altitudes of the mountains had grown chilly, and Bruce rose long enough to throw a fresh armful of dry spruce on the coals.
Then he stretched out his long form again, with his head and shoulders bolstered comfortably against the butt of a tree, and for the fiftieth time he chuckled.
"Chuckle an' be blasted," growled Langdon.

"I tell you I hit him twice, Bruce--twice anyway; and I was at a devilish disadvantage!" "'Specially when 'e was lookin' down an' grinnin' in your face," retorted Bruce, who had enjoyed hugely his comrade's ill luck.

"Jimmy, at that distance you should a'most ha' killed 'im with a rock!" "My gun was under me," explained Langdon for the twentieth time.
"W'ich ain't just the proper place for a gun to be when yo'r hunting a grizzly," reminded Bruce.
"The gully was confoundedly steep.

I had to dig in with both feet and my fingers.