"You're not sick, are you, Mr. Thayor?" asked Holcomb, starting toward him.
"No, my boy," replied Thayor huskily; "I've been happy for a whole day, that is all. Happy for a whole day. Think of it!"
"I'm glad—and you haven't found it too rough; and the things were comfortable, too?" ventured Holcomb.
"Too rough! Why, man, this is Paradise! Think of it, Billy—your friends have been actually interested in me—in my comfort—me, remember!"
"Why, of course," returned Holcomb. "They think a heap of your being here—besides, there are not two better-hearted men in these whole woods than Freme and the old man."
Again the gray eyes gazed down into the torrent.
"What I want to say to you is this: I want you to let me know what you think would be right at the end of our stay, and I'll see that they get it."
Holcomb straightened and looked up with surprise.
"But they're not here, Mr. Thayor, for money; neither of them would accept a cent from you."
"What! Why, that isn't right, Billy. You mean to say that Holt and Skinner have come up here and fixed up this shanty to hunt with us for nothing!" stammered the financier. "I won't have it."