The Ghost Camp by Rolf Boldrewood

MR. BLOUNT, as he sat before the fire, enjoying his final pipe before retiring for the night, was free to confess that he had rarely spent a more satisfactory evening-even in the far-famed, old-fashioned, road-side inns of old England. The night was cold-Carter's forecast had been accurate. It was a hard frost, such as his short stay in a coast city had not acquainted him with. The wide bush fire-place, with a couple of back logs, threw out a luxurious warmth, before which, in a comfortable arm-chair, he had been reading the weekly paper with interest.

The well-cooked, juicy steak, the crisp potatoes, the apple-pie with bounteous cream, constituted a meal which a keen-edged appetite rendered sufficient for all present needs. The difficult ride and too hazardous adventure constituted a fair day's work-being indeed sufficiently fatiguing to justify rest without bordering on exhaustion. It was a case of _jam satis_.