“With Pop’s share o’ Indian Jake’s, and with what Doctor Joe gets, I’m thinkin’ there’ll be plenty t’ pay for Jamie’s goin’ t’ have th’ great doctor cut th’ mist away and maybe t’ pay for part of next year’s outfit too.”
“Aye, plenty, but I has a wonderful strange feelin’ lately, Andy, about Indian Jake not tellin’ what fur he has. Indian Jake’s fine, though, and I take it ’tis just his way.”
“He don’t talk much, Davy.”
“No, he don’t talk much, and he never tells us what fur he’s gettin’. I wonders why?”
“I wonders why, now?”
Thus discussing Indian Jake’s strange behavior and stranger reticence, and conversing of home, a subject of which they never tired, they traveled on and out upon the dazzling white of the marsh. As David had predicted, the glare was intense, and when they reached the cluster of spruce trees where they were accustomed to boil their kettle for dinner at midday, Andy complained that his eyes pained him badly and he could not see aright.
“We’ll wait a bit, till th’ noon glare is past,” suggested David. “There’s plenty o’ time t’ get back t’ th’ tilt, with th’ long day now. My eyes hurt wonderful bad too.”
So they built up their fire and for an hour lounged upon a seat of spruce boughs they had arranged, holding their eyes closed, while they talked, to relieve them from the intense light reflected by the snow. The rest, however, was of no avail. The pain in their eyes grew steadily worse, and it was becoming more difficult to raise the lids, and presently David announced that they had best return to the tilt as quickly as possible.
“’Tis hard t’ see anything,” said Andy, as they set forth.
“’Tis snowblindness. We’ll go straight for th’ tilt,” suggested David, “and not stop t’ fix th’ traps.”