“Well, ’long about noon we come to a clear, purty little lake and set down to eat a snack.  I was stoopin’ over the edge of the lake to get some water in my hat an’ my powder-flask slipped off an’ went, kersplash, down to the bottom!  The water was so clear I could see it layin’ down there, as plain as could be, fifty feet down, I reckon, fer them mountain lakes is prodeejus deep.  Well, the other feller, he could dive better ‘n I could—­he was a great one fer divin’—­an’ he said he ‘d go down after it.  So he stripped, but kep’ his powder-flask ’round his neck.  That kinder riled me, fer it looked as if he was afeared I ‘d run off with it while he was gone.  I did n’t say nothin’, though, an’ down he went.

“Well, I set there an’ waited, an’ finished eatin’ my snack, an’ waited an’ waited for him to come up agin.  I reckon I must a’ set there about fifteen minutes, anyhow, and at last I begun to git so curious about what he could be doin’ all that time, that I up an’ went over to the edge of the bank an’ peeked down into the water.  An’ consarn my soul!”—­here Posey bristled up with as much excited interest in voice and manner as if he were at that moment peering down into the depths of the lake—­“What do you s’pose he was a-doin’ down there?”

“Drowning?” suggested one of our party in a tone that Posey must have thought too flippant for the occasion, for he turned upon the speaker with an indignation that could not all have been inspired by the memory of his stingy friend’s deed.

“Drownin’!  Him!  An’ leave his duds up on the ground fer somebody else to git the good of?  Huh!  Not much!  No, sir!  There he was, down there at the bottom of the lake—­an’ I ‘m a-tellin’ you the Gospel truth, an’ you may take me out an’ drown me in that there very lake if I ain’t—­there was that ornery, stingy cuss down there takin’ his time to empty the powder out o’ my flask into his’n!  I was so mad I felt like heavin’ a rock down on ’im!”

Like many a man in far less humble station, Posey has but to repeat an idea or a statement a few times to convince himself of its absolute truth, no matter how reckless may have been its first enunciation.  As we talked, the sound and savor of frying venison came appetizingly from the kitchen.  Posey sniffed it and straightened up, with childlike, pleased expectancy.

“Venison ’s a mighty healthy meat, ain’t it, Doc?” he said, addressing a physician who was with us.  The doctor gave assent, and Posey swelled and beamed with pleasure that his opinion had won scientific approval.

“Yes, sir,” he went on enthusiastically, “it’s the healthiest meat there is!  Wy, if a man would jest eat venison all the time, he ’d never be sick, an’—­an’ he’d never die, neither!” He paused a moment, the least mite taken aback by the sweepingness of his proposition, then glanced belligerently around his little circle of listeners and repeated with emphasis: