“So it is,” said Benson, lowering his gun, and calling a sickly smile to his frightened face. “You’ll not feel very highly complimented, I know, George, but the fact is I took you for a tramp.”
His two companions laughed loudly, and George smiled and threw his bundle down beside the spring.
“That’s a good joke on you, Benson,” said one of the young hunters who answered to the name of Wallace. “When we return to the village, you’ll have to set up the cigars, if you want us to keep still about it.”
“It’s a bargain,” replied Benson, laying his gun on the ground and seating himself beside it. “Are you travelling, George, or just going somewhere?”
“I am going somewhere,” answered George, as he took a tin cup from his bundle and dipped it into the spring.
“Got a job?”
“No—don’t want any, as long as I remain in this country.”
“Going out to your cabin by the lake?”
George replied that he was; and, having drained his cup, he leaned over to fill it again, the three hunters improving the opportunity to exchange glances that were full of meaning.
“How are you going to make a living out there during the winter?” inquired Benson. “In summer you can fish and pick berries; but when the snow covers the ground, and the lake is frozen clear to the bottom, then what?”