“I want to talk about our future.”
“Well, I can tell you that, Joe. We’re going to make a big success of the farm.”
“No, boy; we are going to give it up.”
“What! Sell it?”
“No; I should be ashamed to take money off a man for so worthless a bargain. We are going to scrape together what skins and feathers are ours, so as to pay our way, and going home.”
“What! empty?” cried Dyke. “That we won’t.”
“We must, boy. I shall never be myself till I have been under a good doctor.”
“What nonsense, Joe. There, let’s talk about something else.—I say, how playful the cubs get; but they’re more like big Saint Bernard pups than kittens.”
“Let us talk about our future, boy,” said Emson rather sternly. “I was thinking bitterly of our prospects when I was sickening for this fever, and I have thought more about them since I have been lying here helpless; and as soon as I can get about, we must prepare for going home.”
“Beaten! Go home, and say: ‘It’s of no use, father; we’re a poor, helpless pair.’”