The silence was appalling. Down at The Jug there was always at least the howling and snarling of the dogs to break the quiet, when ice in winter throttled the otherwise unceasing song of Roaring Brook. But here in the wilderness no sound disturbed the monotonous stillness, save the winter wind soughing through the tree tops. It was a new world to the lads, and the world that they had known seemed far, far away.
Withal, that first week was a trying one, and when, late on Friday evening they glimpsed at a distance the Narrows tilt, and saw smoke issuing from the pipe, they welcomed it joyfully, and were glad enough to be back. Upon entering they found Indian Jake busily engaged preparing supper, the tilt cozy and warm, and the kettle boiling merrily. A pot of partridges simmering upon the stove sent forth an appealing odor. Then they realized how very lonely they had been.
“How you making it, lads?” asked Indian Jake cheerily.
“Not so bad,” answered David stoutly.
“’Tis wonderful fine t’ see you, Jake,” exclaimed Andy.
“’Tis that,” agreed David.
Indian Jake laughed.
“’Twas—’twas growin’ lonesome out there,” explained Andy.
“Yes,” said Indian Jake, “it is lonesome out there till you get used to it.”
“It seems a wonderful long time since we left the Jug,” observed Andy, as they ate supper.