“You bet I will,” was Andy’s quick response as he transferred a big slice to his plate.
“Like it, do ye?” asked John.
“U-m-m,” mumbled Andy as he devoured the last crumb and settled back with a sigh of content.
John’s wrinkled old face spread into a wide grin. From his lips came a cackling laugh.
“What’s the joke?” queried Andy.
“I thought I’d get that muskrat into ye somehow,” chortled the trapper.
“Well, it’s not so durned bad, after all,” philosophized Andy.
On the third day after their arrival they moved to the cabin at the head of the lake. There followed days of arduous toil, days spent in “blazing” lines through almost impassable swales, up steep hillsides and through canyons. Days of strenuous exercise in the stimulating air, when the bright sunshine tanned their faces to a deep brown, brought the glow of perfect health to their eyes, and gave to their muscles the resiliency and strength of steel springs.
CHAPTER VIII
One calm Sunday morning Donald paddled across the lake to try the fly at the mouth of the small creek which flowed past the trapper’s cabin. The clear water was as smooth as glass and the trout refused to be lured from the depths. After casting steadily for fifteen minutes without a rise, he sat down to enjoy a smoke. Sounds from afar came with surprising clearness through the quiet air. Andy was splitting wood outside the cabin door, and the sound of his axe and the words of his song brought a medley of returning echoes. Loons gabbled, wild ducks of many varieties shifted their positions with a whistling rush of wings. The “chee-ry, chee-ry” of a flock of chickadees sounded from a copse of willows on the creek bank. The warmth of the morning gave promise of a hot day when the sun should reach the zenith. A breath of cool air rippled the lake’s surface, bringing with it the faint rumble of a waterfall high up the mountain-side. Donald paddled to the shore, crossed the rustic bridge to where the trapper was working in his garden, and sat down on a convenient stump.