"Not a bad thing to be," Wakefield panted, falling in step with the speaker, who was walking toward the town at a brisk pace.
"Not unless the dogs are round," the stranger demurred.
"Dogs! A jack-rabbit would never know how game he was, if it wasn't for the dogs!"
"Any on your track?" asked the man with a grin. "Looked like it when you come walluping down the mounting!"
"A whole pack of them," Wakefield answered. "Didn't you see anything of them?"
"Can't say I did."
"You're not so smart as you look, then;" and they went jogging on like comrades of a year's standing.
The new acquaintance appeared to be a man of sixty or thereabouts. A crowbar and shovel which he carried over his shoulder seemed a part of his rough laborer's costume. He had a shrewd, good sort of face, and a Yankee twang to his speech.
"You carry those things as easy as a walking-stick," Wakefield observed, ready to reciprocate in point of compliments. "What do you use them for?"
"Ben mendin' the bit o' codderoy down yonder," was the answer.
