“And now, Magnus,” continued Sam, cleaning out his pipe, “we’ll have something remote and tropical from you, with your kind permission. What else has happened to that uncle of yours?”
“Lots of things,” said the imperturbable Magnus. “I’ll tell you one of his Mexican stories, which he calls —
‘AN ENCOUNTER WITH PECCARIES.’
This is, as near as I can remember, the way he told it to me. I speak in his name.
“In my somewhat varied wanderings over the surface of this fair round world,” said my uncle, “I have had adventures more or less exciting, and generally disagreeable, with wolves, bears, and tigers, with irate and undiscriminating bulls, and with at least one of those painfully unpleasant horses, who have acquired a special relish for human flesh. Some childish memories, moreover, disclose to me at times that on more than one occasion I have come off without laurels from a contest with an indignant he-goat, and that I have even been in peril at the wings of an unusually aggressive gander. But of all the unpleasant acquaintances to make when one is feeling solitary and unprotected, I think a herd of irritated peccaries will carry off the palm. Let these sturdy little animals once conceive that their rights have been ever so little menaced, and they are tireless, implacable, and blindly fearless in their demand for vengeance. Just what they may interpret as a menace to their rights I suppose no man can say with any confidence; but my own observation has led me to believe that they think themselves entitled to possess the earth. The earth is much to be congratulated upon the fact that various climatic considerations have hitherto prevented them from entering upon their inheritance. The peccary is confined, I believe, and I state it here on the authority of reputable naturalists, to certain tropical and sub-tropical regions of the New World. My own limited acquaintance with the creature was gained in Mexico.
“Toward the end of the seventies I was engaged upon a survey of government lands in one of the interior provinces of Mexico. Our party was enjoying life, and troubled by few cares. There were no bandits in that region. The scanty inhabitants were more than well-disposed; they were ready to bow down before us in their deferential good-will. The climate, though emphatically warm, was healthful and stimulating. There were hardly enough pumas in the neighborhood to add to our content the zest of excitement. There were peccaries, as we were told in admonition, but we had seen no sign of them; and when we learned that they were only a kind of small wild pig we took little stock in the tales we heard of their unrelenting ferocity.
“On one of our numerous holidays – we could not work our peons on any saint’s day be it remembered – a rumor of a remarkable waterfall adorning a tributary of the stream which meandered past our camp had taken me a longish ride into the foothills of the Sierra. My journey was along a little-frequented trail leading into the mountains, and the scenery was fascinating in its loveliness. I found the waterfall easily enough, for the trail led past its very brink, and I was more than rewarded for the trifling fatigue of my ride. A vigorous stream, rolling from a winding ravine in such a manner that it seemed to burst right out of the mountain-side, leaped sparkling and clamoring into the air from a curtain of emerald foliage, and fell a distance of nearly two hundred feet into a very valley of paradise. In this valley, down into the bosom of which I gazed from my height, the stream lingered to form a sapphire lakelet, around whose banks grew the most luxuriant of tree-ferns and mahoganies and mesquits garlanded with gorgeous-bloomed lianas. I could hear the cries of parrots rising from the splendid coverts, and I thought what a delicious retreat the valley would be but for its assortment of snakes, miasma, and a probable puma or two. I enjoyed the scene from my post, but I did not descend. Then I turned my face homeward, well content.
“The horse I rode requires more than a passing mention, for he played the most prominent and most heroic part in the adventure which befell me on my way home. He was a superb beast, a blood bay, whom I had bought in the city of Mexico from an American engineer who was leaving the country. The animal, who answered to the name of Diaz, had seen plenty of service in the interior of Mexico, and his trained instincts had kept me out of many dangers. I loved Diaz as a faithful friend and servant.
“As I descended from the foothills the trail grew heavy and soft, making our progress slow. The land was open, – a succession of rank meadows, with clumps of trees dotted here and there, and pools on either side of the trail. Suddenly, some distance in my rear, there arose a shrill, menacing chorus of grunts and squeals, at which I would fain have paused to listen. But Diaz recognized the sounds, and bounded forward instantly with every sign of apprehension. Then I said to myself, ‘It must be those peccaries of which I’ve heard so much.’
“In a moment or two I realized that it certainly was those peccaries. They swarmed out of the rank herbage and dashed after us, gnashing their jaws; and, though Diaz was doing his best, the herd gained upon us rapidly. They galloped lightly over the soft soil wherein Diaz sank far above his fetlocks. It took me but a moment to realize, when at last face to face with them, that the peccaries were just as dangerous as they had been represented. And another moment sufficed to show me that escape by my present tactics was impossible.
“I was armed with a light breech-loading rifle, – a Remington, – and a brace of Smith & Wessons were sticking in my belt. Wheeling in my saddle I took a snap shot at the pursuing herd, and one of the animals tumbled in his tracks. His fellows took no notice of this whatever. Then I marked that Diaz appreciated our plight, for he was trembling under me. I looked about me, almost despairing of escape.
“A little behind, nearly half-way between us and the peccaries, I saw a wide-spreading tree close to the trail. We had passed it at the first of the alarm. Ahead, as far as I could see, there was no such refuge. Plenty of trees there were indeed, but all standing off amid the swamps. I decided at once upon a somewhat desperate course. I turned Diaz about, and charged down upon the peccaries with a yell.
“This stratagem appeared exactly to my horse’s taste. In fact, his attitude made me rather uncomfortable. He seemed suddenly distraught. He gave several short whinnying cries of challenge or defiance, and rushed on with his mouth wide open and his hips rolled back in a fashion that made him look fiendish. My design was to swing myself from the saddle into the tree that overhung the trail, and so give Diaz a chance to run away, when free of my weight. But Diaz seemed bent on carrying the war into the enemy’s country.
“I took one more shot at the peccaries, who seemed no whit dismayed by the onset of Diaz. I dropped my rifle, and kicked my feet out of the stirrups. By this time we were under the tree, and the peccaries with wild squeals were leaping upon us. I had just succeeded in grasping a branch above my head, and was swinging myself up, when I saw Diaz spring into the air, and come down with his forefeet upon one of the grunting herd. The brute’s back was broken. Almost in the same instant my brave steed’s teeth had made short work of another peccary; but his flanks were streaming with blood, and the dauntless animals were literally climbing upon him and ripping his hide with their short, keen tusks. I emptied my revolvers rapidly, and half a dozen animals dropped; but this made no appreciable difference in their numbers. Meanwhile Diaz had gathered himself together, and then, lashing out desperately before and behind, had shaken himself free. He sprang clear of the pack, and galloped off up the trail toward the mountains.
“The peccaries pursued him but a few paces, and then returned to besiege my tree of refuge, giving me an excellent opportunity for revolver practice. As I was refilling my emptied chambers, I heard a snorting screech coming down the trail; and there to my amazement was Diaz returning to the charge. But could that terrible-looking beast be my gentle Diaz? His eyes seemed like blazing coals, and his great jaws were dripping with blood. The peccaries darted joyously into the fray, but Diaz went right through and over them like a whirlwind, mangling I know not how many in his course, and disappeared down the trail on the homeward road. His charge had been murderous, but there were still plenty of my adversaries left to make my beleaguerment all too effective. I gazed wistfully after my heroic horse, and then, perched securely astride a branch, I continued my revolver practice. The peccaries, never heeding the diminution of their ranks, and disdaining to notice their wounds, kept scrambling on one another’s shoulders, and thrusting their malignant snouts high into the air in the hope of coming at me and satiating their revenge.
“In the course of half an hour my little stock of cartridges, used deliberately and effectively, was gone; but so, as I congratulated myself, were most of the peccaries. There were still half a dozen, however; and these, as far as my imprisonment was concerned, were as bad as fourscore. These were incorruptible jailers; and I feared lest their ceaseless, angry cries might summon another herd to their assistance. When a couple of hours had passed I grew deeply disgusted, and began to plan my camping arrangements for the night.
“In the act of tying some branches together to make myself a safe couch, I caught the welcome sound of voices approaching. It was my party out in search of me. The arrival of Diaz, torn, bloody-mouthed, and in a wild excitement, had, of course, given them a terrible alarm; and they had set off without delay, hardly expecting to find me alive. A few shots from their rifles broke up the siege, and the meagre remnant of the peccaries fled into the swamps. When I got back to camp I found that none of the peons dared to do anything for Diaz, or even to approach him, he was so furious and so erratic. To me he was submissive, though with an effort. I dressed his wounds, and gave him a heavy dose of aloes, and in a day or two he was himself again. But I believe he was on the verge of going mad.”
When Magnus ceased I murmured, “I only hope your uncle’s adventures will last right through this trip.”
“And now,” said Sam, “we’ll call on Queerman for something of a tender and idyllic tone; eh, Queerman?”
“All right,” was the reply. “And I’ll show you, Sam, that I, too, know something of the lumber-camps. Listen to a gentle —
‘IDYL OF LOST CAMP.’
“In the lumber-camps they still talk about the great midwinter thaw that wrought such havoc ten years back. It came on without warning about the last week in February. There had been heavy snowfalls in the early part of the winter, and all through that district the snows were deep and soft. Before the thaw came to an end these great snow masses were dwindled to almost nothing, and the ice had gone out of the rivers in a series of tremendous floods.
“For the lumber thieves the thaw was a magnificent opportunity, of which they made haste to avail themselves. Having no stumpage dues to pay, they could afford a little extra outlay for the difficult hauling. They were comparatively secure from interruption, and the opening of the streams gave them an opportunity of quickly getting their spoils out of the way.
“One of the most important camps of the district at that time was that of the Ryckert Company, on the Little St. Francis. On a Saturday morning, the fourth day of the thaw, word was brought into camp that the thieves were having a delightful time over on Lake Pecktaweekaagomic, on the Company’s timber limits. Steve Doyle, the boss of the camp, immediately called for volunteers to attempt the capture of the marauders. Every man at once came forward, with the exception of the cook; and the boss, in order to excite no jealousies, made his selection by lot. In half an hour the squad was ready to set out.
“‘Be you agoin’ along, sir?’ inquired one of the hands.
“‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Doyle. ‘McCann will be in charge here while we’re gone. There’s such a thing possible as a brush with them fellows, though I don’t anticipate no trouble with ’em. I reckon they’re relyin’ on the thaw to keep ’em from bein’ interrupted.’
“‘I thought,’ responded the man who had just spoken, ‘as how the “little feller” might come out to camp to-day, along of Mart, an’ you mightn’t want to miss him. He ain’t been here fur more’n a month, now, an’ we’re all kind of expectin’ him to-day. You kin depend on us to make a good job of it, ef so be’s you’d like to stay by the camp. The hands all knows you too well to think you stay home on account of bein’ skeered, anyways!’
“At this there was a general laugh; for Doyle’s reckless courage was famous in all the camps.
“‘No,’ said the boss, after a thoughtful pause; ‘it’s my place to go, and not to stay. Anyways, I’m not lookin’ for Arty to-day. His grandmother ain’t goin’ to let him come when the road’s so bad. No!’ he continued with renewed emphasis, ‘this ain’t no time for Arty in the woods.’
“Without more discussion the band picked up their dunnage and their guns, and set out for the lake of the unpronounceable name. It is needless to say the name became much shortened in their careless lingo. On state occasions they sometimes took pains to pronounce it ‘Peckagomic.’ For every-day use they found ‘Gomic’ quite sufficient.
“About the time the expedition was setting out from the Ryckert Camp, far away in Beardsley Settlement a very small boy was being tucked comfortably into the straw and bearskins of a roomy pung. As his grandmother kissed the round, expectant little face, she said to the driver, a slim youth of perhaps eighteen, —
“‘Do you think, now, Mart, the goin’ won’t be too bad? Be you sure the pung ain’t likely to slump down and upset? And then there’s the ice! This warm spell must have made it pretty rotten! Will it be safe crossin’ the streams? Somehow or other, I do jist hate lettin’ Arty go along this mornin’!’
“‘Don’t you be worryin’ a mite, marm,’ responded Mart Babcock, gathering up the reins. ‘Ther’ ain’t no ice to cross, seein’s ther’ ain’t no rivers in our rowt, exceptin’ the Siegus, an’ that’s got a bridge to it. I’ll look after Arty, trust me. His pa’d be powerful disapp’inted if I didn’t bring him along this time, to say nawthin’ of all the hands!’
“‘Well, well,’ said the old lady in a voice of reluctant resignation; ‘I suppose it’s all right; but take keer of him, Mart, as if he was the apple of your eye!’
“It was a soft, hazy, melting day when Mart and Arty set out on their long drive. The travelling was heavy, but the air was delicious, and our travellers were in the highest spirits. This visit to the camp was Arty’s dearest treat, and was allowed him three or four times during the winter.
“Toward noon the hazy blue of the morning sky changed to a thick gray, while the air grew almost oppressively warm, and the woods were filled on all sides with the strange, innumerable noises of the great thaw. The dull crunchings of the settling masses of snow at first thrilled the child with a vague alarm. Then, reassured by his companion, he grew interested in trying to distinguish the varied sounds. The unbending of softened twigs and saplings, the dropping of loosened bark, the stealthy tricklings of unseen rillets – all these filled the forest with a sense of mysterious activity and bustle.
“Every little while Mart stopped to give the floundering horse rest and encouragement. Jerry belonged to Steve Doyle; but being a great pet with his owner, and devoted to the child, and at the same time somewhat too old to endure without injury the hardships of winter lumbering, he had been left at home in luxury the last two winters, with nothing to do but make a weekly trip to the camp on the Little St. Francis. In all cases Jerry was treated with affectionate consideration, which he amply repaid by his intelligence and willingness.
“When our weary travellers reached the top of the hill overlooking the camp, Jerry was pretty well fagged. There was the camp, however, not half a mile away in its clearing at the end of a straight bit of road. Arty clapped his hands, and stood up to see if he could catch a glimpse of his father looking out for him; and Mart chirruped cheerfully to the horse.
“Just at this moment the rain, which had been threatening for hours, came down. It came down in sheets. The horse was urged to a run; but the travellers, ere they reached the camp, were drenched as if they had fallen in the river. Arty, moreover, was drenched in tears for a few moments on learning of his father’s absence; but soon, with the delighted pettings and caressings of the three or four woodsmen who had been left in the camp, the little fellow’s disappointment was assuaged, and he was making himself at home. The camp, however, seemed to him lonely and deserted; and when, after supper, getting the cook to wrap him up in an oilskin coat, he went out to the stable to give Jerry a big piece of camp gingerbread and bid him good-night, his disappointment welled up again, and he gave way to a few more tears on the affectionate animal’s neck.
“Around the blazing fire a little later Arty was himself again. The men sang songs for him, and told him stories, and blew little clouds of bitter smoke from their pipes into the brown thicket of his curls. He sat now on one rough fellow’s knee, now on another’s, and absorbed all the attention of the camp, and was allowed by the cook to eat all the gingerbread he wanted. When he got sleepy he was put into his father’s bunk; and, since he was determined to have it so, Mart was allowed to sleep beside him. Arty having gone to bed, there was nothing for his admirers to do but follow his example. Their hearts filled with tender memories and generous thoughts, stirred up by the presence of the child among them, the backwoodsmen turned into their bunks, and soon were fast asleep.
“That night the floods came. The torrents rushing down every hillside speedily burst the already rotten ice. Some miles above the camp a jam formed itself early in the evening, – a mixed mass of ice-cakes, logs, and rubbish; and this kept the water below from rising rapidly enough to warn the camp of its danger. Just as the gray of dawn was beginning to struggle dimly through the forest aisles, the jam broke, and the mighty avalanche of ice and water swept down on the slumbering camp.
“There was no warning. Men perished in their sleep, crushed or drowned, without knowing what had happened. The camp was simply wiped out of existence.
“The bunk in which Arty lay asleep with his young protector was not built into the wall like the other bunks. It was a separate structure, and stood across the end of the building close by the fireplace. When the flood struck the camp, the stout building went down like a house of cards.
“With a choking cry of terror Arty awoke to find himself drifting in a tumult of icy waters. Great dark waves kept whirling, eddying, and crashing about him. An arm was around him, holding him firmly, and he realized that Mart was taking care of him. Presently a fragment of wreck plunged against them and he heard Mart groan; but the young man caught the timbers, and bade Arty lay hold of them. The child bravely did as he was told, and climbed actively upon the floating mass. Hardly had he done so when Mart disappeared under the dark surface.
“A shrill cry broke from Arty’s lips at the sight, but in a moment the young man reappeared. He was close against the timbers – dashing against them, in fact; but Arty saw that he was unable to hold on to them. Throwing himself flat on his face, the plucky little fellow caught hold of his friend’s sleeve, and clung to it with all his tiny strength. Tiny as it was, it was enough for the purpose, however, and Mart’s head was kept above water; but his eyes were closed, and he did not notice the child’s voice begging him to climb up onto the wreck.
“The waters subsided almost as rapidly as they had risen, though the stream remained a torrent, raging far above its wonted bounds. In a few minutes the timbers on which Arty had his refuge were swung by an eddy into shallow water. They caught against a tree, and then grounded at one end.
“Arty began crawling toward shore, dragging Mart’s body through the water without great difficulty. But when he got into the shallow part it was another matter; he could not haul Mart’s weight any farther. Resting the young man’s head on the edge of the timbers, he paused to take breath, and looked about him in despair. Now he began to cry again; he had been too busy for lamentations while trying to save Mart.
“Presently he heard some one approaching, attracted by the sound of his voice. Looking up eagerly, he saw it was old Jerry, picking his way through the shallow water. He called him by name, and the horse neighed joyfully in answer. The animal was sadly bedraggled in appearance, but evidently unhurt. He had swum ashore lower down the river, and was making his way back to where he expected to find the camp. Now, however, he came to Arty, sniffed him over, and rubbed him with his soft, wet nose.
“‘Jerry’ll help me pull Mart out,’ said the child aloud, half to himself, half to the horse; and laying hold of the young man’s sleeve, he again began bravely tugging upon it. ‘Pull too, Jerry,’ urged the little fellow, while the animal stood wondering what it was he was required to do. In a moment, however, he understood; and seizing the young man by the collar of his shirt, he speedily dragged him to land without much help from Arty. The affectionate creature recognized his driver, and stood over him with drooping head, bewildered at his helplessness and silence. Mart opened his eyes, and groaned slightly once or twice, but immediately relapsed into unconsciousness. Arty sat down by his side, his little heart overflowing with grief and fear. He kept crying for his father and his grandmother, and for Mart to open his eyes. Jerry completed the sad group, standing over it as if on guard, and ever and anon lifting his head to send forth a shrill whinny of appeal. This was the position in which, a half-hour later, guided by Jerry’s signals, Steve Doyle and his party found them.
“Doyle had not caught the lumber thieves. The march of his party had been so retarded by the thaw that they had halted before going half-way. As the storm increased, and they observed how the water was rising in the brook beside which they had encamped, they became alarmed. They realized the prospect of a big flood; and Steve Doyle led his men back in hot haste. It was full daylight when they came out upon the devastated clearing where once had stood the camp.
“The horror in the lumbermen’s hearts is not to be described. In a pile of wreckage, strangely mixed up with hay and straw from the stable, they found the cook, with a leg and an arm broken, but still alive. Of no one else was there a sign, nor of the horses. From the cook, Doyle learned of Arty’s presence in the camp. Without a word, but with a wild, white face, the man started down stream in a despairing search; and the whole band followed, with the exception of two that stayed to take care of the unfortunate cook.
“When the father clasped Arty in his arms he was almost beside himself with joy for a few moments; then he remembered the poor fellows who were gone. Giving the child into the arms of one of the men, he busied himself with Mart, whom, by means of rubbing, he soon brought back to consciousness. The brave fellow had been stunned by a blow on the head, and afterward half drowned; but he soon recovered so far as to be able to walk with assistance. To Arty he owed his life, even as he had himself saved Arty’s.
“A little later a melancholy procession started back for Beardsley Settlement. The poor cook was placed on Jerry’s back, and bore his pain like a hero. Arty trudged by the side of McCann, to whose charge he was committed by his father, and Mart was helped along by two of his comrades. With these went five or six more of the hands, to get them safely to the settlement. All the rest, under the leadership of Steve Doyle, set off down river on a search for the three missing men, or their bodies. And the site of the camp was left to its desolation.
“As for Doyle’s search, it proved fruitless, and the party returned heavy-hearted. Henceforth the scene of the catastrophe became known throughout that region as ‘Lost Camp,’ and was sedulously avoided by the lumbermen. Next season the Ryckert Company’s camp on the Little St. Francis was built on higher ground some miles farther up stream.”
“That’s a most depressing tale, Queerman,” grumbled Ranolf. “I suppose it’s my turn now; and, thank goodness, I’ve got something frivolous to tell!”
“Heave ahead, then,” urged Stranion.
“Your title?” I demanded.
“This is the tale of ‘The Cart before the Steer,’” replied Ranolf.
THE CART BEFORE THE STEER
“‘Landry!’ shouted Squire Bateman, emerging from the big red door of the barn with a pitchfork in his hand.
“Landry, an excitable little Frenchman, appeared suddenly around the woodhouse, as if he had just been waiting to be called.
“‘Landry,’ said the squire, ‘you’re goin’ in to Kentville this mornin’ for that feed, ain’t you?’
“‘Yes, sare,’ responded Landry.
“The farmer considered for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on a head of wheat. Then he continued, ‘You’d better take the black-an’-white steer along, and leave him at Murphy’s as you pass. He’s fat now as he’ll ever be, an’ it’s jest a waste o’ feed to keep on stuffin’ the critter.’
“‘’Ow’ll I take him, sare?’ queried Landry.
“‘Oh,’ replied the squire rather impatiently, turning back into the barn, ‘hitch him to the back o’ the cart. He’ll lead all right!’
“On this point Landry seemed doubtful. He scratched his head anxiously for a moment, and then darted off in his nervous way, so unlike the deliberateness of hired men in general, to carry out his employer’s orders.
“The black-and-white steer was a raw-boned beast, about three years old, with no disposition to take on fat. There was a wild, roving expression in his eye which made Landry, who knew cattle well, and appreciated the differences in their dispositions, very doubtful as to his docility when being led to market. In Squire Bateman’s eyes, however, a steer was a steer; and if one could be led so could another. Squire Bateman had a constitutional hatred of exceptions.
“When Landry was ready to start he hitched the steer to the cart-tail with a strong halter, and set out with misgivings. But the steer proved docility itself. It trotted along in indolent good humor, holding its head high, and sniffing the fresh, meadow-scented air with delight. By the time they reached the top of Barnes’s Hill, a long descent about two miles this side of Kentville, Landry had made up his mind that he had done the animal an injustice. But just at this stage in the journey something took place, as things will so long as Fate remains the whimsical creature she is.
“It chanced that a party of wheelmen from Halifax, on a tour through the Cornwallis valley and the Evangeline regions, arrived at the top of the hill when Landry and his charge were about half-way down. The bicyclists were riding in a long line, single file. Their leader knew the country, and he knew that Barnes’s Hill was smooth and safe for ‘coasting.’ Some of the riders, the leader among them, were on the old-fashioned high wheels, while others rode the less conspicuous ‘Safeties,’ then a new thing. Each man, as he dipped over the edge of the slope, flung his legs over the handles and luxuriously ‘let her go.’ They saw the team ahead, but there was abundance of room for safe passing.
“Now, Squire Bateman’s black-and-white steer had been brought up behind the Gaspereau hills, where the wheelman delights not to wander. A bicycle, therefore, was in his eyes a novel and terrifying sight. As the whirling and gleaming apparition flashed past he snorted fiercely, and sprang aside with a violence that almost upset the cart. Landry sprang to his feet, grinding his teeth with excitement and wrath, and the next wheelman slipped radiantly by. This was too much for the black-and-white steer, and on the third wheel he made a desperate but ineffectual charge.
“Ineffectual did I say? Well, only so far as that wheel was concerned; but he flung himself so far across the way that the next rider could not avoid the obstacle. The tall wheel struck the animal amidships, so to speak; and the rider went right on and landed in a dismal heap. The other riders darted aside up the bank into the fence, stopping themselves gracefully or ungracefully, but at any cost avoiding the now quite demented beast that was blocking their way.
“The animal made a frantic dash at the unfortunate wheelman in the gutter, who had picked himself up with difficulty, and was feeling for broken bones. He was beyond the steer’s reach, but discreetly hobbled to the fence, and placed that welcome barrier between him and the foe. The fury of the animal’s charge, however, had swung the cart right across the road, and now the frightened horse began to plunge and rear. Landry held him in partial control; and the next instant the steer made a second mad rush, this time aiming at the bicycle which had struck him, and which now lay in the gutter. He reached the offending wheel, but at the same time he upset the cart. Out went Landry like a rubber ball; and the horse, kicking himself free of the traces, set out at a highly creditable pace for Kentville.
“The rage of the little Frenchman, as he picked himself up, was Homeric. He abused the bellowing and bounding brute with an eloquence which, had it been expressed in English, would have made the wheelmen on the other side of the fence depart in horror. Then he seized a fence stake and rushed into close quarters, resolved to enforce his authority.