Neither did Tim, while regretting the loss of his slave, know or care that one of his occasional visitors was now a mortal enemy of the other, and that a tragedy, dark and grewsome, would be its outcome.
CHAPTER V
“The size o’ a toad is allus reg’lated by the size o’ the puddle.”–Old Cy Walker.
A week was spent by Martin and his party at the settlement, during which he acquired the title to township forty-four, range ten, which included the little lake near the hermit’s hut, and made a foursquare-mile tract about it.
Chip, thanks to Angie, secured a simple outfit of apparel and–surprising fact–evinced excellent taste in its selection, thereby proving that eight years of isolation and a gunny-sack and red-shirt garb had not obliterated the deepest instinct of woman.
To Levi, Martin’s woodwise helper, was left the selection of fittings for the new camp. A couple of husky Canucks were engaged to bring them in in a bateau, and then the party started on its return.
Only one incident of importance occurred during the wait at this village known as Grindstone. Angie and Chip had just left the only store there, in front of which a group of log-drivers had congregated, when Angie, glancing back, saw that one of the group was following them. She quickened her pace, and so did he, until just as they turned into a side street, he passed them, halted, and turned about.
“Wal, I’m damned if ’tain’t Chip, an’ dressed like a leddy,” he exclaimed, as they drew near.
“Hullo, Chip,” he added, as they passed, “when did you strike luck?”