"I don't know yet. I'm not sure it's mine, you see."
"Your grandfather left it you," said Seaforth; "and it was his."
"Yes," said Alton gravely. "He did, but he tacked a kind of condition on to it, and—well, that's about all I can tell you, Charley."
"Of course!" and Seaforth smiled curiously. "I would not have asked you, only I am your partner, and when you're Alton of Carnaby you will have no more use for me."
Alton seemed to sigh. "I am," he said simply, "Alton of Somasco, and I fancy now and then that was all I was meant to be. You are my partner, Charley, and it would take a good deal more than Carnaby to separate you and me."
Seaforth smiled again, though there was more than amusement in his face, while Alton, who stopped beside the fire and filled two cans from the kettle, shook his head reproachfully as he flung their contents into the bush.
"That's what comes of talking too much. You have forgotten to put in the tea," he said.
They lay down early, rolled in the blankets, with the tent across them, for the wind that lashed the lake rendered it advisable not to erect it, but it was some time before Seaforth went to sleep. He fancied he understood Alton's assertion that he was not sure Carnaby was his, for he knew his comrade was capable under certain conditions of almost reasonless generosity. Nor did he desire a better partner, but he was not sure that in the event of Alton transferring his activities to England their friendship would be approved of by a possible mistress of Carnaby. Women, Seaforth knew, regarded these things differently.
He slept at last, and awakening felt the tent heavy upon him. There was also a curious rawness in the atmosphere, and he glanced about him with a little gasp of consternation. The hillside gleamed coldly above him under the creeping light, and only the pines were sombre, for the earth was white with snow.
"Get up, Harry," he said, with something in his voice that roused his comrade suddenly.