"I guess, Uncle Barney, you've lived on that island a good number of years," put in Bill Hobson.
"Twelve years coming this Christmas," was the reply. "I went there the day after my wife was buried," and the old lumberman's face clouded as if the memory of what had happened was still bitter.
"Do you do any lumbering there?" questioned Randy, more to change the subject than for any other reason.
"Oh, yes; I do quite some lumbering during the season. I have a firm in the city that sends up there every year for all the stuff I cut. At this time of year. I like to go out hunting. It's the one sport that I thoroughly enjoy. And I reckon you boys enjoy it, too, or you wouldn't be out with your guns."
"Yes, we like to go hunting once in a while."
"Well, now, listen to me, boys. You saved my life out there in the woods, and if I was real well off, I'd try to reward you for it. But, as it is——"
"We don't want any reward," broke in Jack quickly.
"I know you don't—you're not that kind. And I'm not going to offend you by offering it. Just the same, if you ever feel like coming over to Snowshoe Island and paying me a visit, I'll treat you as well as I know how."
"Maybe we might be able to go over there and do some hunting some time," suggested Andy.
"Yes, you come over some time and stay a few days or a week with me, and I'll give you the best time hunting I can," answered Barney Stevenson.