Snow was falling when they made camp that evening in the shelter of the forest on the lake shore, and cozy and snug the tent was with a roaring fire in the stove, and the wind swirling the snow outside, and moaning through the tree tops. Indian Jake had said little during the afternoon, but now as he fried a pan of pork by the light of a sputtering candle, while David and Andy laid the bed of fragrant spruce boughs, he volunteered the information that they would be in the Nascaupee River early in the morning.
“That’s fine,” said David. “We made a wonderful day’s travel, now, didn’t we?”
Indian Jake did not reply, and the boys, too, fell into silence, until supper was eaten and Indian Jake had lighted his pipe. Then David asked:
“Where were you livin’ before you came to th’ Bay, Jake?”
“South,” grunted Indian Jake.
“Did your folks live there?” asked Andy.
“Yes,” answered Indian Jake.
“Why don’t yo bring un t’ th’ Bay t’ live, now you’re here?” asked Andy. “’Twould be fine t’ have your folks t’ live with you.”
“Because I can’t,” replied Indian Jake, in a tone that implied he was through talking.
“I’m wonderful sorry,” sympathized Andy.