forest until he looks like a death's head. But we'll soon fix him up;
won't we, Joe? Give him a mug of hot tea right away. Hot tea is worth a
dozen of any other drink in the woods for a pick-me-up."

A spark of fun kindled in Dol's eyes when he heard himself described as
"a hungry bird." It brightened into an appreciative beam as the reviving
tea trickled down his throat.

"Eatin's wot he wants, I guess," said Joe, the camp guide and cook,
placing some meat and a slab of bread of his own baking on a tin plate
for the guest.

Dol began on them greedily; and though the first mouthful or two
threatened to sicken him, his squeamishness wore off, and he gained
strength with every morsel.

"How do you like Maine venison, my boy? Like it well enough to have
another piece, eh?" asked his host, when he saw that the haggard, gray
look was leaving the wanderer's face, and that the appalled, dazed
expression, the result of being lost in the woods, had disappeared from
his eyes.

"I think it's the best meat I ever tasted," answered Dol heartily. "It's
so tender, and has a splendid taste."

"Ha! ha! It ought to be prime," chuckled the owner of the camp. "It was
cut from the quarters of a buck which my nephew here, Royal Sinclair,"
pointing out the tallest of three lads, "shot four days ago. He was a
regular crackerjack--that buck! I mean, he was as fine a deer as ever I
saw; weighed over two hundred pounds, had seven prongs to his horns on