Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Internet Archive. The Tent Dwellers [Illustration: "He was swearing steadily and I think still blaming me for most of his troubles."--_Page_ 83.] THE TENT DWELLERS BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE _Author of "The Van Dwellers," "The Lucky Piece," etc_. _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HY. WATSON_ [Illustration] NEW YORK THE OUTING PUBLISHING CO. MCMVIII COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY Chapter One _Come, shape your plans where the fire is bright,_ _And the shimmering glasses are--_ _When the woods are white in the winter's night,_ _Under the northern star._ Chapter One It was during the holiday week that Eddie proposed the matter. That is Eddie's way. No date, for him, is too far ahead to begin to plan anything that has vari-colored flies in it, and tents, and the prospect of the campfire smell. The very mention of these things will make his hair bristle up (rather straight, still hair it is and silvered over with premature wisdom) and put a new glare into his spectacles (rather wide, round spectacles they are) until he looks even more like an anarchist than usual--more indeed than in the old Heidelberg days, when, as a matter of truth, he is a gentle soul; sometimes, when he has transgressed, or thinks he has, almost humble. As I was saying, it was during the holidays--about the end of the week, as I remember it--and I was writing some letters at the club in the little raised corner that looks out on the park, when I happened to glance down toward the fireplace, and saw Eddie sitting as nearly on his coat collar as possible, in one of the wide chairs, and as nearly in the open hickory fire as he could get, pawing over a book of Silver Doctors, Brown Hackles and the like, and dreaming a long, long dream. Now, I confess there is something about a book of trout flies, even at the year's end, when all the brooks are flint and gorged with white, when all the north country hides under seamless raiment that stretches even to the Pole itself--even at such a time, I say, there is something about those bits of gimp, and gut, and feathers, and steel, that prick up the red blood of any man--or of any woman, for that matter--who has ever flung one of those gaudy things into a swirl of dark water, and felt the swift, savage tug on the line and heard the music of the singing reel. I forgot that I was writing letters and went over there. "Tell me about it, Eddie," I said. "Where are you going, this time?"