Mr. Hedges and I were on guard during the last relief of the night, which extends from the “Wee sma’ hours ayont the twal” to daybreak.  The night was wearing on when Hedges, being tempted of one of the Devils which doubtless roam around this sulphurous region, or that perhaps followed Lieutenant Doane and myself down from that “high mountain apart” where the spirits roam, asked me if I was hungry.  I replied that such had been my normal condition ever since our larder had perceptibly declined.  Mr. Hedges then suggested that, as there was no food already cooked in the camp, we take each a wing of one of the partridges and broil it over our small fire.  It was a “beautiful thought,” as Judge Bradford of Colorado used to say from the bench when some knotty legal problem relating to a case he was trying had been solved, and was speedily acted upon by both of us.  But I was disappointed in finding so little meat on a partridge wing, and believed that Hedges would have chosen a leg instead of a wing, if he had pondered a moment, so I remedied the omission, and, as a result, each roasted a leg of the bird.  Soon increase of appetite grew by what it fed on, and the breast of the bird was soon on the broiler.

In the meantime our consciences were not idle, and we were “pricked in our hearts.”  The result was that we had a vision of the disappointment of our comrades, as each should receive at our morning breakfast his small allotment of but one partridge distributed among so many, and it did not take us long to send the remaining bird to join its mate.  Taking into consideration the welfare of our comrades, it seemed the best thing for us to do, and we debated between ourselves whether the birds would be missed in the morning, Hedges taking the affirmative and I the negative side of the question.

This morning when our breakfast was well nigh finished, Mr. Hauser asked “Newt,” the head cook, why he had not prepared the partridges for breakfast.  “Newt” answered that when he opened the pan this morning the birds had “done gone,” and he thought that “Booby” (the dog) had eaten them.  Whereupon Hauser pelted the dog with stones and sticks.  Hedges and I, nearly bursting with our suppressed laughter, quietly exchanged glances across the table, and the situation became quite intense for us, as we strove to restrain our risibles while listening to the comments of the party on the utter worthlessness of “that dog Booby.”  Suddenly the camp was electrified by Gillette asking, “Who was on guard last night?” “That’s it,” said one.  “That’s where the birds went,” said another.  This denouement was too much for Hedges and myself, and amid uproarious laughter we made confession, and “Booby” was relieved from his disgrace and called back into the camp, and patted on the head as a “good dog,” and he has now more friends in camp than ever before.