But them scrapes wan't nothin' like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now." "A scrape! What sort of a scrape?
I hope you haven't--" "Ye needn't talk o' hope, Frank Hamersley.

The thing air past hopin', an' past prayin' for.

Ef this chile know anythin' o' the signs o' love, he has goed a good ways along its trail.

Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o' takin' the backtrack." "On that trail, indeed ?" "Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, 'ithout neer a moccasin on 'em.

Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an' thet difeequelty air bein' fool enuf to fall in love-- the which he hez dun, sure, sartin." Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation.