At any rate,
he was the first to start putting the matter to rights.
"Never mind telling it just now," he said in a gruff voice, but with
real gentleness; "get a bite t'eat first and then let her go
afterwards. Better have a horn of whisky too. It ain't all packed yet, I
guess."
"Couldn't eat or drink a thing," cried the other. "Good Lord, don't you
see, man, I want to _talk_ to someone first? I want to get it out of me
to someone who can answer--answer. I've had nothing but trees to talk
with for three days, and I can't carry it alone any longer. Those
cursed, silent trees--I've told it 'em a thousand times. Now, just see
here, it was this way. When we started out from camp--"
He looked fearfully about him, and we realised it was useless to stop
him. The story was bound to come, and come it did.
Now, the story itself was nothing out of the way; such tales are told by
the dozen round any camp fire where men who have knocked about in the
woods are in the circle. It was the way he told it that made our flesh
creep. He was near the truth all along, but he was skimming it, and the
skimming took off the cream that might have saved his soul.
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