“Not so long,” said David, a little inclined to brag.
“No only a month yet. But,” condescendingly, “’tis like t’ seem long the first time. ’Twas so when I was up here with Pop last year. But I’m not mindin’ un now.”
“You was lonesome enough up at the Namaycush Lake tilt,” Andy retorted.
“’Twon’t help any t’ talk about un,” warned Indian Jake. “You’ll be gettin’ homesick at the start.”
But after this the hope that each trap would reward them with a fine pelt kept alive their keen interest in the work. And, too, they were doing exceedingly well. Before the middle of December they had captured fourteen martens, one red, one cross, and two white foxes, which was quite as well, Indian Jake declared, as he had done, and was very well indeed, and they were proud.
“And it’s all prime fur except th’ first two martens we got,” said David.
“We’re makin’ a grand hunt, Davy!” exclaimed Andy, enthusiastically.
“That we are!” agreed David.
The cold was tightening with each December day. Wild, fierce storms sprang up suddenly, and the air was filled with blinding clouds of snow. But David and Andy kept steadily at their work, with “plenty of grit, and stout hearts,” lying idle only when it would have been too dangerous or foolhardy to venture forth from the protection of the tilts. This is the portion of the fur hunter’s existence.
But neither David nor Andy gave thought to the hardships he was experiencing. They had expected them, and they were accustomed to cold weather and deep snows. They were always glad, however, to reach the snug shelter of the tilts, of nights.