Читать книгу Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters онлайн

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“You behaved like a hero,” was the comment of old Robsart, when he had finished, “and I think have fairly ’arned your supper. Ef you keep on improving at this rate, I’ll make a hunter of you in the course of seventy-five or eighty, or ninety or a hundred years. Come in to the banquet.”

Little Rifle was as “hungry as a bear,” and he accepted the invitation on the instant. Drawing the buffalo-robe aside, he saw a tempting, luscious supper awaiting him upon a ledge of rock, about a foot from the ground, on the center of which sat a lamp, giving out quite a clear light from the oil that the old hunter himself had extracted from some of the animals he had captured in his traps. Without loss of time, the two sat down, and began devouring the meal, chatting in the meanwhile, like old friends who had not seen each other for many days.

“I’ve been on quite a tramp sence yesterday,” said Old Ruff, with his cheeks swelling out with the juicy meat. “I went a good many miles up the stream, and I used my eyes.”