No one troubled to stir
the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in a sky quite
wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already forming
stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The silence
of the vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them.
Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.
"I'm in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, Doc," he observed with
energy, looking across at his employer. "We don't stand a dead Dago's
chance around here."
"Agreed," said Cathcart, always a man of few words. "Think the idea's
good."
"Sure pop, it's good," Hank resumed with confidence. "S'pose, now, you
and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us ain't
touched that quiet bit o' land yet--"
"I'm with you."
"And you, Defago, take Mr. Simpson along in the small canoe, skip across
the lake, portage over into Fifty Island Water, and take a good squint
down that thar southern shore. The moose 'yarded' there like hell last
year, and for all we know they may be doin' it agin this year jest to
spite us."
Defago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing by way of reply. He
was still offended, possibly, about his interrupted story.
"No one's been up that way this year, an' I'll lay my bottom dollar on
_that!_" Hank added with emphasis, as though he had a reason for
knowing. He looked over at his partner sharply.
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