“Dear Nancy,”—­that was it,—­“Dear Nancy, I can’t get over it, and I take them all back.  And if anything happens coming down on the logs—­”

I couldn’t finish that anyhow, so I just wrote “Aaron” down in the corner, and folded the brown paper up.  It didn’t look any more like “Aaron” than it did like “Abimelech,” though; for I didn’t see a single letter I wrote,—­not one.

After that I went to bed, and wished I was Jim Jacobs.

Next morning somebody woke me up with a push, and there was the boss.

“Why, Mr. Cullen!” says I, with a jump.

“Hurry up, man, and eat your breakfast,” said he; “Jacobs is down sick with his cold.”

“Oh!” said I.

“You and the pork must be back here day after to-morrow,—­so be spry,” said he.

I rather think I was, Johnny.

It was just eight o’clock when I started; it took some time to get breakfast, and feed the nags, and get orders.  I stood there, slapping the snow with my whip, crazy to be off, hearing the last of what Mr. Cullen had to say.

They gave me the two horses,—­we hadn’t but two,—­oxen are tougher for going in, as a general thing,—­and the lightest team on the ground; it was considerably lighter than Bob Stokes’s.  If it hadn’t been for the snow, I might have put the thing through in two days, but the snow was up to the creatures’ knees in the shady places all along; off from the road, in among the gullies, you could stick a four-foot measure down anywhere.  So they didn’t look for me back before Wednesday night.

“I must have that pork Wednesday night sure,” says Cullen.

“Well, sir,” says I, “you shall have it Wednesday noon, Providence permitting; and you shall have it Wednesday night anyway.”

“You will have a storm to do it in, I’m afraid,” said he, looking at the clouds, just as I was whipping up.  “You’re all right on the road, I suppose?”

“All right,” said I; and I’m sure I ought to have been, for the times I’d been over it.

Bess and Beauty—­they were the horses, and of all the ugly nags that ever I saw Beauty was the ugliest—­started off on a round trot, slewing along down the hill; they knew they were going home just as well as I did.  I looked back, as we turned the corner, to see the boys standing round in their red shirts, with the snow behind them, and the fire and the shanties.  I felt a mite lonely when I couldn’t see them any more; the snow was so dead still, and there were thirty miles of it to cross before I could see human face again.

The clouds had an ugly look,—­a few flakes had fallen already,—­and the snow was purple, deep in as far as you could see under the trees.  Something made me think of Ben Gurnell, as I drove on, looking along down the road to keep it straight.  You never heard about it?  Poor Ben!  Poor Ben!  It was in ’37, that was; he had been out hunting up blazed trees, they said, and wandered away somehow into the Gray Goth, and went over,—­it was two hundred feet; they didn’t find him, not till spring,—­just a little heap of bones; his wife had them taken home and buried, and by and by they had to take her away to a hospital in Portland,—­she talked so horribly, and thought she saw bones round everywhere.