A crowd of old college
friends had just left him alone in the hills after spending several
weeks at his place, and his sole occupation these days, aside from
directing the affair's about the house and grounds, lay in the efforts
to commune with nature by means of a shotgun and a fishing-rod. His
most constant companion was a pipe, his most loyal follower a dog.
As he sauntered slowly down the river road that afternoon, smiling
retrospectively from time to time as he looked into the swift, narrow
stream that had welcomed his adversaries of the morning, he little
thought of the encounter in store for him. The little mountain stream
was called a river by courtesy because it was yards wider than the
brooks that struggled impotently to surpass it during the rainy
season. But it was deep and turbulent in places and it had a roar at
times that commanded the respect of the foolhardy.
"The poor devils might have drowned, eh, Bonaparte?" he mused,
addressing the dog at his side. "Confounded nuisance, getting wet
after all, though. Lord Bazelhurst wants war, does he? That log down
there is the dividing line in our river, eh? And I have to stay on
this side of it. By George, he's a mean-spirited person. And it's his
wife's land, too. I wonder what she's like. It's a pity a fellow can't
have a quiet, decent summer up here in the hills. Still"--lighting his
pipe--"I daresay I can give as well as I take. If I stay off his land,
they'll have to keep off of mine. Hullo, who's that? A man, by George,
but he looks like a partridge.
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