Although the light of morning was now apparent above, yet the thick growth of the trees, whose clustering branches mingled in one dense mass overhead, made it still dark and sombre below; and Joe, to divert Sneak from his unconscionable gait, which, in his endeavours to keep up, often subjected him to the rude blows of elastic switches, and many twinges of overhanging grape vines, essayed to engage his companion in conversation. “I say, Mr. Sneak,” observed Joe, with an eager voice, as his pony trotted along rather roughly through the wild gooseberry bushes, and often stumbled over the decayed logs that lay about. “What do you want, stranger?” replied Sneak, slackening his gait until he fell back alongside of Joe. “I only wanted to know if you ever killed a bear before,” said Joe, drawing an easy breath as Pete fell into a comfortable walk. “Dod rot it, I hain’t killed this one yit,” said Sneak. “I didn’t mean any offence,” said Joe. “What makes you think you have given any?” “Because you said _dod rot it_.” “I nearly always say so—I’ve said so so often that I can’t help it. But now, as we are on the right footing, I can tell you that I wintered once in Arkansaw, and that’s enough to let you know I’m no greenhorn, no how you can fix it. And moreover, I tell you, if old Boone wasn’t here hisself, I’d kill this bar as sure as a gun, and my gun is as sure as a streak of lightning run into a barrel of gunpowder;” and as he spoke he threw up his heavy gun and saluted the iron with his lips. “Is your’s a rifle?” inquired Joe, to prolong the conversation, his companion showing symptoms of a disposition to fall into his habit of going ahead again. “Sartainly! Does anybody, I wonder, expect to do any thing with a shot-gun in sich a place as this?” “Mine’s a shot-gun,” said Joe. “Dod—did you ever kill any thing better than a quail with it?” inquired Sneak, contemptuously. “I never killed any thing in my life with it—I never shot a gun in all my life before to-night,” said Joe. “Dod, you haven’t fired it to-night, to my sartain knowledge.” “I mean I never went a shooting.” “Did you load her yourself?” inquired Sneak, taking hold of the musket and feeling the calibre. “Yes—but I’m sure I did it right. I put in a handful of powder, and paper on top of it, and then poured in a handful of balls,” said Joe. “Ha! ha! ha! I’ll be busted if you don’t raise a fuss if you ever get a shot at the bar!” said Sneak, with emphasis. “That’s what I am after.”