“The lake doesn’t freeze clear to the bottom,” said George, with a laugh. “I can supply the village with the muskalonge that I shall spear through the ice—I shall have a monopoly of that trade, you know, for the lake is so far away that no one thinks of going up there in winter—and the snow will afford me the means of tracking minks, raccoons and hares.”
“Hares! You mean rabbits, I suppose?”
“No, I don’t. There are no wild rabbits in America.”
Benson opened his eyes, and showed a disposition to argue that point, but he was checked by a look from Wallace. He evidently understood just what it meant, for he settled back on his elbow and relapsed into silence.
None of the hunters had anything to say after that, and George, believing that his absence would suit them better than his company, shouldered his bundle, said good-by, and struck into the path that led to the hills.
“You’re a good one, Benson, you are!” exclaimed Wallace, as soon as he had satisfied himself that George was out of hearing. “You gave us dead away, in the first place, and then kept him here by talking to him.”
“I wanted to allay his suspicions, if he had any,” replied Benson. “That was the reason I talked to him.”
“Was that the reason why you pointed your gun at him?” inquired the hunter who had not spoken before, and whose name was Forbes.
“I was a little too hasty, that’s a fact,” said Benson. “But you remember what we were talking about, do you not? Well, when I looked up and saw him standing there, almost within reach of us, I was so badly frightened that I didn’t know what I was doing. Do you suppose he heard anything?”
“Of course he heard something,” growled Wallace, in reply. “He must be deaf if he didn’t.”