LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“He would never get ready, Katharine; he would hide away in some tree, and that would be the end of his earthly career. You must not forget that he cost me three big silver dollars.”
It was a solemn and impressive spectacle as seen in the gloaming,—those two weird shadowy figures moving slowly and silently through the tall weeds and dog’s-fennel; the Captain a few paces in advance, showing no perturbation, though well he knew “a frightful fiend did close behind him tread.” Occasionally he would pause to snatch a belated bug or an unwary grasshopper, or with assumed nonchalance stop before some little bush, scratch about its roots, then stand on tiptoe, and examine each leaf as carefully as if he were engaged in the study of botany. All this time Tom, with the same affected carelessness, would be sauntering near, pausing as the Captain paused, just as if he were taking an evening stroll and had by the merest accident fallen in with the military gentleman, but always keeping on the off-side and unobtrusively guiding the wanderer’s steps bedward. When at last the wayward one entered the building, the door would bang behind him with such force as to shake the whole crazy structure. These evening rambles were continued for a couple of weeks, when suddenly it seemed to dawn upon the Captain that sunset was practically the sounding of “taps” in the hills, whereupon he turned in with the others, and gave his guardian no further trouble.
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