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 lieve me, I got all the lumber campin' I could tolerate, and every time I see a toothpick any more I get a pain in my back from thinkin' of that wood factory in dear old St. Thérèse!

When we come in for chow that night we got quite a shock. The hard work in the clear frosty air of the north woods has made our appetites like a boa constrictor's, and me and the Kid give the meal such a beatin' that the cook, known as Ptomaine Joe around the camp, comes into the mess hall to look us over. That's where we got the shock. The cook is no less than the big guy which Kid Roberts slapped for a turnip the day before in Honoré Collet's store!

Both me and Kid Roberts figure we're in for a brawl, and we jump from our stools, ready for action. But, after a puzzled look, Ptomaine Joe comes over to us with a broad smile on his homely pan and a hand like a ham outstretched to the Kid.

"Howdy!" he says. "Boy, you sure can sock, I'll tell the cross-eyed world! What did you have in your hand when you cuffed me?"

"I believe it was a right hook," smiles the Kid, shakin' his hand. "I'm sorry I—"

"Never be sorry for no clout like 'at," interrupts Ptomaine Joe. At was a peach! Say—is they any chance of you teachin' me 'at punch?"

"Why, I'd be glad to," says Kid Roberts. "You like to box, eh?"

"Like it?" snorts the fightin' cook. "Why, I'm a boxin' fool! I have made everybody on this man's