“No; no, that’s all right. I’ve got to go out with these furs, anyway. I’ll get around to-morrow and spring my traps, and we can pull out early the next morning,” he said.
“And you and Moze must spend Christmas with us!” cried George, enthusiastically.
Again a strange silence came over the trapper, and he walked slowly away toward the door.
“Maybe you have other plans; and, of course—” began Ed; but Bill interrupted him.
“No, I’ve no plans, son; I never make them any more, ’cause, you see—” he paused and looked at them out of misty, troubled eyes, and they instantly understood. “But we’ll do it this time! Won’t we, Moze?” he laughed, suddenly, and the hound rose and wagged his tail.
The next day was to be a busy one, and with the first gray streak of dawn they were away on the trap line. About an inch of snow had fallen during the night, and the trapper pointed out many new tracks as he hurried along.
“Do you see that trail there, the little footprints, two by two?” he inquired.
The boys said they did.
“Well, that was made by a mink. See, here he’s stepped into one of his front tracks, and left only three footprints on the snow. That’s a great trail of his, always looks like he’d suddenly lost a leg.”
It was a glorious winter day, and Bill was in high spirits. Nothing escaped his wonderful eyes, and everything seemed to contain a message, which he gladly read to the boys. He showed them the delicate, lace-like trails of the little wood-mice, and pointed to where one had tunneled its way beneath the snow in search of hidden seeds.