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Updated: May 2, 2025
Here Cyrus caught sight of Dol, who with a cry which in its changing inflections was longing, penitent, joyful, was making towards him. The Harvard student strode forward, and gripped the boy by his elbows. In the dusk their eyes were near together; Garst's were stern, Dol's blinking and unsteady.
There could be no difficulty in recognizing Cyrus Garst's well-knit figure and speculative eyes, though a sprouting beard changed somewhat the lower part of his face. And if Royal Sinclair's tall shoulders and brand-new mustache were at all unfamiliar, anybody who had once heard the click and hum of his hasty tongue would scarcely question his identity.
Only don't you go turning dizzy or losing your balance. Ha! you old spindle-legged monster, stand off from that tree. Take a turn at mine now, for a change. You can't shake me down, if you butt till midnight." Garst's last sentences were hurled at the moose.
Such were the exclamations blown to Garst's ears by the hot breath of his English friends, as they reached his side, and stooped with him to examine the fallen forest beauty. "No; I guess we can manage to haul the head back to camp, with as much meat as we need. You'll have your 'chunk of caribou-steak as big as a horse's upper lip, to-night, Herb, and bigger if you want it.
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