But it contained one thing at least of interest—something that at once brought Sam and Yan together. This was a collection of a score of birds' eggs. They were all mixed together in an old glass-topped cravat box, half full of bran. None of them were labelled or properly blown. A collector would not have given it a second glance, but it proved an important matter. It was as though two New Yorkers, one disguised as a Chinaman and the other as a Negro, had accidently met in Greenland and by chance one had made the sign of the secret brotherhood to which they both belonged.
"Do you like these things?" said Yan, with sudden interest and warmth, in spite of the depressing [113] surroundings.
"You bet," said Sam. "And I'd a-had twice as many only Da said it was doing no good and birds was good for the farm."
"Well, do you know their names?"
"Wall, I should say so. I know every Bird that flies and all about it, or putty near it," drawled Sam, with an unusual stretch for him, as he was not given to bragging.
"I wish I did. Can't I get some eggs to take home?"
"No; Da said if I wouldn't take any more he'd lend me his Injun Chief gun to shoot Rabbits with."
"What? Are there Rabbits here?"
"Wall, I should say so. I got three last winter."
"But I mean now," said Yan, with evident disappointment.