"Fiddle-dee-dee! You mustn't be so easily discouraged," answered the
other young man, who had already set to work scraping up dry chips and
pieces of bark to make a fire, "Think of these poor mountaineers who
stay here all their lives. Your little tramp of a few days is nothing
to what they do all the time and never think of complaining. The half
of them are too poor to own a mule. They eat hog and hominy the year
around, and are thankful to get it. Their clothes are fearfully and
wonderfully made, but for all that they don't give up and think life
isn't worth living."

As the two young fellows talked on in this strain I named them Growler
and Cheery, because the one was so determined to look on the dark side,
while the other took a cheerful view of everything. Growler continued
to lounge on the ground, looking with careless interest at Cheery, who
was preparing dinner.

The dinner was in a small tin box which he took from his coat pocket.
Opening it he disclosed some eatables very compactly put in. He took
out several articles and set them on the ground in front of him. In
the box was a bottle stoutly corked containing a dark liquid, some of
which he poured into a flat tin cup which formed a part of the lid of
the box. This he set over the fire, which by this time was snapping
cheerily.

"Come," he said. "Here's a lunch fit for a king. Get up and have your
share. Maybe when your stomach is warmed up with a few ham and mustard
sandwiches, some cheese and coffee, you'll be in better spirits. These
crackers are good eating too."

"Fit for a king, eh? Mighty poor kind of a king, I should say,"