It was instructive to see how quietly and methodically the old mountaineer went about his task of getting the breakfast. First he cut and laid a couple of eight-inch logs on either side of the fire, so that the wind drew through them properly, then placing his dutch-oven cover on the fire, he laid the bottom part where the flames touched it. Next he filled his coffee-pot with water, and set it on the coals. From his pannier he took his dishes and the flour and salt and pepper, arranging them all within reach, and at last laid some slices of bacon in the skillet.
At this stage of the work a smothered cry, half yawn, half complaint, came from the tent. “Oh, hum! Is it morning?” inquired Berrie.
“Morning!” replied her father. “It’s going toward noon. You get up or you’ll have no breakfast.”
Thereupon Wayland called: “Can I get you anything, Miss Berrie? Would you like some warm water?”
“What for?” interposed McFarlane, before the girl could reply.
“To bathe in,” replied the youth.
“To bathe in! If a daughter of mine should ask for warm water to wash with I’d throw her in the creek.”
Berrie chuckled. “Sometimes I think daddy has no feeling for me. I reckon he thinks I’m a boy.”
“Hot water is debilitating, and very bad for the complexion,” retorted her father. “Ice-cold water is what you need. And if you don’t get out o’ there in five minutes I’ll dowse you with a dipperful.”
This reminded Wayland that he had not yet made his own toilet, and, seizing soap, towel, and brushes, he hurried away down to the beach where he came face to face with the dawn. The splendor of it smote him full in the eyes. From the waveless surface of the water a spectral mist was rising, a light veil, through which the stupendous cliffs loomed three thousand feet in height, darkly shadowed, dim and far. The willows along the western marge burned as if dipped in liquid gold, and on the lofty crags the sun’s coming created keen-edged shadows, violet as ink. Truly this forestry business was not so bad after all. It had its compensations.