"Sort o' stone."
"Struck it rich?"
"Don't give me any chin-music, boys; give me tea. I'm dog-tired."
But when Mac got up first, as usual, to go down to the Little Cabin to "wood up" for the night, "I'll walk down with you," says the Boy, though it was plain he was dead-beat.
He helped to revive the failing fire, and then, dropping on the section of sawed wood that did duty for a chair, with some difficulty and a deal of tugging he pulled "the sort o' stone" out of the pocket of his duck shooting-jacket.
"See that?" He held the thing tightly clasped in his two red, chapped hands.
Mac bent down, shading his eyes from the faint flame flicker.
"What is it?" "Piece o' tooth."
"By the Lord Harry! so it is." He took the thing nearer the faint light. "Fossil! Where'd you get it?"
"Over yonder—by a little frozen river."