The cookee, woods-camp traditional butt of jokes, stared from one to the other, trying to recover his composure. "And Marm Bear there wanted to take along that pot of beans for the picnic dinner," added Charlie. "I think it's goin' to be a general mass-meetin' to discuss the game laws," said Ike. "The boys who were swampin' the twitch-roads yistiddy told me that deer kept traipsin' past all day and--well, there goes three now." White "flags" flitted through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, and a startled "Whick-i-whick!" further up the valley-side hinted at the retreat of still others. Their departure was probably hastened by the cook's shrill "Who-e-e-e!" the general call for the camp. He came out of the cook-house scrubbing his hands and bare arms with a towel. "Git that bean-pot here! What are you standin' round on one foot for?" he demanded, testily. When the cookee began to stutter explanations, brandishing freckled arms to point the route of the fugitives, the cook interrupted, but now there was humor in his tones. "Thunderation, you gents is sartinly slow to understand what's before your eyes! Don't you know why all these animiles is runnin' away from down there?" He jerked a red thumb over his shoulder towards the south. "Ain't 'Stumpage John' Barrett down there with Withee, lookin' over that tract where we operated last season?" Sly grins of appreciation appeared on the faces of the teamsters. "Ain't you got any notion of what particular kind of language 'Stumpage John' has been lettin' out of himself for the last twenty-four hours?" "Well, the idee is," said the cook, "he is down there cussin' to that extent that he's cussed every animile off'n Square-hole township. Animiles is natcherally timid, delicate in the ears, and hates cussin'. The deer come first because they can run fastest. Bears left as soon as they could, and is hurryin'. Rabbits will come next, and the quill-pigs are on the way. Then I reckon Barnum Withee will fetch up the rear. Oh, it must be somethin' awful down there!" He faced the south with grave mien. His listeners guffawed. But a moment later "Push Charlie" stepped clear of the hovel and sniffed with canine eagerness. There was a subtle, elusive, acrid odor in the air. It seemed to billow up the valley, whose shoulders circumscribed their vision so narrowly. "I reckon," he stated, "that he's throwed so much brimstone around him reckless that he's set fire to the woods." "That's the way with some of these big timber-owners," remarked the cook, still in humorous mood. "They raise tophet with a sport because he throws down a cigar-butt, and they themselves will go out right in a dry time and spit cuss words that's just so much blue flame. It's dretful careless!" he sighed.