That was sort of hard on Peter, although he would not have admitted it, he was growing fond of the careless, happy-go-lucky tramp. Booge had a fund of rough philosophy and, more than all else, he was good to Buddy, and had not Peter resolved to be a different man himself on Buddy's account, he would have liked nothing better than to have Booge make his winter home in the shanty-boat, but he felt that Booge must go. The trouble was to drive him away. Booge would not drive, and Peter thought of a hundred quite impossible schemes for getting rid of him before he hit on the one he finally decided to put into effect.
He had noticed that the farmer on the hill back of the lake, where Buddy had spent the day of his mother's funeral, had a huge pile of cord wood in his yard, and he tramped across the lowland to the farmer's house and dickered for the sawing of the wood. It was a large contract, and Peter as a rule did not care to saw wood except in dire straits, but he had decided that if he was to be a man of worth he must be a man of work to begin with, and the wood pile was opportunity. It was while walking home after making his bargain with his farmer friend that he had his happy idea—Booge must saw wood! His food supply would be cut off otherwise!
He explained it to Booge that evening. Here they were in the shanty-boat, Peter explained, the two of them and Buddy, all eating from the common store of food, and that store dwindling daily. Buddy could not work, but Peter could, and Booge must. Then he explained about the pile of wood, a good winter's work for the two of them. Booge listened in silence. He was silent for several minutes after Peter ceased talking, and then he grinned.
“The man that says he wouldn't rather find a silver dollar in the road than earn five dollars a-workin', is like that man that got killed with a thunderbolt for careless conversation,” he said cheerfully, “so I won't say it. Wood-sawin' and me has been enemies ever since I became a tourist. I guess I'll have to go—”
“I bet you would!” said Peter.
“Yes,” said Booge, “I'll have to go—up to that farmer's and saw wood.”
His eyes twinkled as he saw Peter's face fall. And he was as good as his word. The two men, taking turns carrying Buddy or leading him by the hand, walked across the snow-covered bottom to the farm the next morning, and while Booge did not over-exert himself, he at least sawed wood. He sawed enough to prevent any unduly harsh criticism from Peter.
For Buddy the trips were pleasure jaunts. He was able to play all day with the farmer's little daughter, just enough older than he to hold her own against his imperious little will, and Booge might have developed into an excellent sawer of wood, but one morning, the little girl did not come out to play with Buddy. She was sick, and in due time Buddy became sick too—plain, simple measles.
“Now, then,” said Peter when one morning he awakened to find Buddy's face covered with the red spots and the boy complaining, “one of us has got to stay here in the boat and take care of Buddy.”
“You'd better stay,” said Booge promptly. “You stay, Peter, and I'll go on up and saw wood. I'm gettin' quite fond of it.”