'You don't say it was the deer?' asked the young man, still dazed.
The hunter laughed. 'That's what. You had the fever, and as strong as I've ever seen it take a man.'
'Well--that beats all,' said Winton, hanging on each syllable.
'Told you it wasn't well to wound and not kill. Guess you won't fix another for quite a time.'
'How's that? Lots of them around, aren't there?'
'I reckon,' said the other drily. 'Question is whether you'll be able to shoot when you sight one. It'll worry you a bit. I'm thinking.'
Winton stretched his long limbs. 'It takes me all my time to understand this. Course I've heard of the fever--lots of times, but I didn't put much on hunters' talk--'
'And now you've had it.'
'It doesn't last, though?'
'Won't with you, I reckon. I've known some taken with it when they weren't any better than boys, and as they got older it didn't show any wearing off. Whenever they'd start to shoot at a deer, the fever would come
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