“I ain’t sayin’ I’d like to mix with one when he’s vexed,” continued the lady judicially; “but why vex ’em?  They never look for trouble; then why force it on their notice?  Take one summer, years ago, when Lysander John and I had a camp up above Dry Forks.  My lands!  Every night after supper the prettiest gang of skunks would frolic down off the hillside and romp round us.  Here would come Pa and Ma in the lead, and mebbe a couple of aunts and uncles and four or five of the cunningest little ones, and they’d all snoop fearlessly round the cook fire and the grub boxes, picking up scraps of food—­right round under my feet, mind you—­and looking up now and then and saying, ‘Thank you!’ plain as anything, and what lovely weather we’re having, and why don’t you come up and see us some time?—­and so on.  They kept it up for a month while we was there; and I couldn’t want neater, nicer neighbours.

“Lysander John, he used to get some nervous, especially after one chased him back into the tent late one night; but it was only wanting to play like a mere puppy, I tells him.  He’d heard a noise and rushed out, and there the little thing was kind of waltzing in the moonlight, whirling round and round and having a splendid time.  When it came bounding toward him—­I guess that was the only time in his life Lysander John was scared helpless.  He busted back into the tent a mere palsied wreck of his former self; but the cute little minx just come up and sniffed at the flap in a friendly way, like it wanted to reassure him.  I wanted him to go out and play with it in the moonlight.  He wouldn’t.  I liked ’em round the place, they was so neighbourly and calm.  Of course if I’d ever stepped on one, or acted sudden—­

“They also tame easy and make affectionate pets.  Ralph Waldo Gusted, over on Elkhorn, that traps ’em in winter to make First-Quality Labrador Sealskin cloaks—­his children got two in the house they play with like kittens; and he says himself the skunk has been talked about in a loose and unthinking way.  He says a pet skunk is not only a fine mouser but leads a far more righteous life than a cat, which is given to debauchery and cursing in the night.  Yes, sir; they’re the most trusting and friendly critters in all the woods if not imposed upon—­after that, to be sure!”

I said yes, yes, and undoubtedly, and all very interesting, and well and good in its place; but, really, was this its place?  I wanted Lew Wee’s reasons for believing in the existence of savage hill tribes between there and San Francisco.

“Yes; and San Francisco is worse,” said the lady.  “He believes that city to be ready for mob violence at any moment.  Wild crowds get together and yell and surge round on the least provocation.  He says it’s different in China, the people there not being crazy.”

“Well, then, we can get on with this mystery.”

So Ma Pettengill said we could; and we did indeed.