Thorn paced to and fro, his rifle on his shoulder, vigilant and
soldierly, however soft his heart might be. Phil leaned against the
tree, one hand in the breast of his blue jacket, on the painted
presentment of the face his fancy was picturing in the golden circle
of the moon. Flint lounged on the sward, whistling softly as he
whittled at a fallen bough. Dick was flat on his back, heels in air,
cigar in mouth, and some hilarious notion in his mind, for suddenly
he broke into a laugh.

"What is it, lad?" asked Thorn, pausing in his tramp, as if willing
to be drawn from the disturbing thought that made his black brows
lower and his mouth look grim.

"Thinkin' of my wife, and wishin' she was here, bless her heart! set
me rememberin' how I see her fust, and so I roared, as I always do
when it comes into my head."

"How was it? Come, reel off a yarn and let's hear houw yeou hitched
teams," said Flint, always glad to get information concerning his
neighbors, if it could be cheaply done.

"Tellin' how we found our wives wouldn't be a bad game, would it,
Phil?"

"I'm agreeable; but let us have your romance first."

"Devilish little of that about me or any of my doin's. I hate
sentimental bosh as much as you hate slang, and should have been a
bachelor to this day if I hadn't seen Kitty jest as I did. You see,
I'd been too busy larkin' round to get time for marryin', till a