“What's that for?” said the stranger, suddenly.
“A fire to dry your clothes.”
The stranger calmly kicked the pile aside.
“Not any fire tonight if I know it,” he said, brusquely. Before Morse could resent his quickly changing moods he continued, in another tone, dropping to an easy reclining position beneath the tree, “Now, tell me all about yourself, and what you are doing here.”
Thus commanded, Morse patiently repeated his story from the time he had left his backwoods cabin to his selection of the river bank for a “location.” He pointed out the rich quality of this alluvial bottom and its adaptability for the raising of stock, which he hoped soon to acquire. The stranger smiled grimly, raised himself to a sitting position, and, taking a penknife from his damp clothes, began to clean his nails in the bright moonlight—an occupation which made the simple Morse wander vaguely in his narration.
“And you don't know that this hole will give you chills and fever till you'll shake yourself out of your boots?”
Morse had lived before in aguish districts, and had no fear.
“And you never heard that some night the whole river will rise up and walk over you and your cabin and your stock?”
“No. For I reckon to move my shanty farther back.”
The man shut up his penknife with a click and rose.