After a savory repast, Will went to sleep on a pile of hemlock-boughs, covered with another pile. He seemed to be on the brink of surprising experiences. When Jo waked him in the first glow of red sunrise through the chinks, he felt as if he had been floating on a cloud in the upper sky.
“We must hurry up,” exclaimed Jo. “’T’s thickening for foul weather.” So they broke their fast as they went along, Will refreshing himself with a huge icicle. He felt that even were he sent back to his books, and obliged to learn all about Hector and Andromache by way of punishment, it would be a cheap price to pay for the joy and satisfaction of this trip.
Still, as they approached the camp, Will’s heart was not quite as light, though they were welcomed by the baying of dogs, the chorus of clinking axes, and the shouts of the men driving the oxen that hauled the felled trees to the lake. But it rose again when he heard that Old Uncle and Aunt Susan had gone on toward the upper camp, and would not be back for some hours.
Will lost no time in making himself familiar with his new surroundings—the long low house of logs with the bunks inside, the deacon-seat where so many good stories were told, the huge fire where the sturdy little cook was frying a barrel of doughnuts at a time.
“How do you like life here?” said he to the cook.
“First-rate,” was the cook’s reply, as he dropped his dough into the fat.
“Ever seen a catamount?” Will asked.
“Cry round the camp soon’s it’s dark.”
Will’s eyes opened wider. “Really?”
“Cry like a child ter toll the men out.”