'bout a man es a man is 'bout them. Ef they can't smell 'im, they 're terrible cur'us. Jes' wan' t' see what 's inside uv 'im an' what kind uv a smellin' critter he is. Dunno es they wan' t' dew 'im any pertic'lar harm. Jes' wan' t' mux 'im over a leetle; but they dew it awful careless, an' he ain't never fit t' be seen no more."
He snickered faintly as he spoke.
"An' they don't nobody see much uv 'im efter thet, nuther," he added, with a smile.
"I 'member once a big bull tried t' find out the kind o' works I hed in me. 'T wa'n' no moose—jest a common ord'nary three-year-ol' bull."
"Hurt you?" I queried.
"No; 't hurt 'im." said he, soberly. "Sp'ilt 'im, es ye might say. Could n't never bear the sight uv a man efter thet. Seem so he did n't think he wus fit t' be seen. Nobody c'u'd ever git 'n a mild o' th' poor cuss. Hed t' be shot."
"What happened?"
"Hed a stout club 'n my hand," said he. "Got holt uv 'is tail, an' begun a-whalin' uv 'im. Run 'im down a steep hill, an' passin' a tree, I tuk one side an' he t' other. We parted there fer the las' time."
