one side and six on the other. Royal is going to take the antlers home
with him to Philadelphia. We were mighty glad to get him, too; for we
have been camping here for five weeks, and were running short of
provisions. Roy had quite an attack of buck-fever over it, though he
didn't think he was killing the 'fatted calf', to entertain a visitor;
did you, Roy?"

"I guess not, Uncle! But I'm pretty glad, all the same," answered Royal,
with a smiling glance at Dol.

Young Farrar found himself in very pleasant quarters; and, now that he
was recovering, his laugh rang from one log wall to the other.

"What's 'buck-fever'?" he questioned, while Joe filled his plate with
more venison.

"A sort of disease of which you'll learn the meaning before you leave
these woods," answered his host merrily. "It attacks a man when he's out
after a deer, and makes him feel as if one leg stands firm under him,
while the other shakes as if it had the palsy.

"Now I guess you'd like to know whose camp you're in, my boy, and then
you can tell your story. Well, to begin with the most useful member of
the party. That knowing-looking fellow over there, who cooked your
supper, is Joe Flint, the best guide that ever pulled a trigger or
handled a frying-pan in this region--barring one. These three rascals,"
here the speaker beamed upon the strapping lads, with whom Dol had been
exchanging sympathetic glances of curiosity, "are my nephews, Royal,
Will, and Martin Sinclair. And I--I--