A flood of confused recollections rushed on his wavering mind at
the sight of his late comrade. It was evident that he struggled
with his own images, and knew not the real from the unreal.
"Who are you?" he asked in a husky whisper, his failing strength
refusing to aid him in a louder effort of his voice.
"Who are you? - You look like the mate of 'The Snow' - he was a
giant, too, and near overcoming us."
"I'm your mate, Floating Tom, and your comrade, but have nothing to
do with any snow. It's summer now, and Harry March always quits
the hills as soon after the frosts set in, as is convenient."
"I know you - Hurry Skurry - I'll sell you a scalp! - a sound one,
and of a full grown man - What'll you give?"
"Poor Tom! That scalp business hasn't turned out at all profitable,
and I've pretty much concluded to give it up; and to follow a less
bloody calling."
"Have you got any scalp? Mine's gone - How does it feel to have
a scalp? I know how it feels to lose one - fire and flames about
the brain - and a wrenching at the heart - no - no - kill first,
Hurry, and scalp afterwards."
"What does the old fellow mean, Judith? He talks like one that
is getting tired of the business as well as myself.
Pages:
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620