twice as many. What kind of an outfit are you working, anyhow,
Captain?' And at dinner that day, the boss pointed me out to the
others and said, 'That little fellow standing over there with the
button shoes on is the only man in my outfit that is worth a ----
----.'"

The cook had finished his work, and now joined the circle. Parent
began regaling us with personal experiences, in which it was
evident that he would prove the hero. Fortunately, however, we
were spared listening to his self-laudation. Dorg Seay and Tim
Stanley, bunkies, engaged in a friendly scuffle, each trying to
make the other get a firebrand for his pipe. In the tussle which
followed, we were all compelled to give way or get trampled
underfoot. When both had exhausted themselves in vain, we resumed
our places around the fire. Parent, who was disgusted over the
interruption, on resuming his seat refused to continue his story
at the request of the offenders, replying, "The more I see of you
two varmints the more you remind me of mule colts."

Once the cook refused to pick up the broken thread of his story,
John Levering, our horse-wrangler, preempted the vacated post. "I
was over in Louisiana a few winters ago with a horse herd," said
John, "and had a few experiences. Of all the simple people that I
ever met, the 'Cajin' takes the bakery. You'll meet darkies over
there that can't speak a word of anything but French. It's
nothing to see a cow and mule harnessed together to a cart. One
day on the road, I met a man, old enough to be my father, and
inquired of him how far it was to the parish centre, a large
town. He didn't know, except it was a long, long ways. He had
never been there, but his older brother, once when he was a young