“Make camp.”
“It won’t take all day to make camp.”
“Rest,” said Joe. And that was all that Gallatin could get out of him, so he said no more, for he knew by experience that when Joe’s mind had decided a question of policy, mere words made no impression on him.
John Kenyon listened from the flap of the tent, with a sleepy eye on the rising sun.
“Don’t try to combat the forces of nature, my son,” he laughed. “Joe’s right! I for one am going to take things easy.” And he rolled himself in his blanket, sank back on his balsam couch and closed his eyes again.
There was nothing for Phil but to bow to the inevitable. That day he worked harder even than the guides and it seemed to John Kenyon that some inward force was driving him at the top of his bent. He spoke little, laughed not at all and late in the afternoon went off upstream alone with his rod and creel, returning later gloomy and morose.
“No fish,” said Joe, looking at the empty creel. “Fish to-morrow!”
Joe actually smiled and Gallatin laughed in spite of himself.
“Beeg fish—to-morrow,” repeated Joe. “I show—um.”