"Something of the kind, boy," answered his host, smiling. "I don't look
much like a city physician, do I? I graduated from a medical college in
Philadelphia, and took my degree. But I had an enthusiasm for the woods.
One hour of forest life in dear old Maine was to me worth a year spent
amid streets, alleys, and sky-scraping buildings; so I fixed my
headquarters at Greenville, and have spent most of my time in the
wilderness."

"Where every trapper, guide, and lumberman knows Dr. Phil Buck, whom
they disrespectfully and affectionately call 'Doc,'" put in Cyrus. "And
many a poor fellow owes his life or limbs to Doc's knowledge and nursing
in some hard time of sickness, or after one of the dreadful accidents
common in the forests."

Dol could well understand this; for he now was benefiting by Dr. Phil's
lively desire to relieve suffering, and was silently breathing blessings
on his head. The doctor had bathed his puffy feet in warm water taken
from Joe's camp-kettle, and was anointing them with a healing salve,
after which he tucked them into a loose pair of slippers of his own.
Meanwhile, he chatted pleasantly.

"This isn't the first time that your friend Cyrus and I have run against
each other in the wilds," he said, "nor the first time that we've camped
together, either. Bless you! we could make you jump with some of our
stories. Do you remember that night in '89, Cy, when you, with your
guide, came upon me lying under a rough shelter of bark and spruce
boughs, which I had rigged up for myself near Roaring Brook, on the side
of Mount Katahdin?"