“All right.” Avery stepped out and closed the door. “She says she don’t care, and thet’s a woman’s way of sayin’ she do care, sometimes. Funny how young folks gits to thinkin’ their fathers warn’t young folks onct.”
“Dave,” he said, as he approached the open door of the other’s cabin, “how do you feel ’bout packin’ up and goin’ fur a moose up Squawpan way?”
“Bully! Wouldn’t like anything better.”
“Swickey’s goin’ likewise. We kin camp on the pond and take Smoke and the whole outfit. Got to take him anyway, seein’ as we’re like to be out three-four days.”
“I’ll get ready. When do you start?”
“In the mornin’—early. We kin paddle up as fur as the head of the lake, and then tote over to Squawpan, and I reckon we kin make the pond by night. They’s a shack I built over on the pond and we kin take thet leetle tent of your’n.”
“Will the canoe carry three of us—and Smoke?”
“We’ll take the twenty-footer, jest in case we git a head. Reckon she’ll float thet much, howcome we kin go back a’ter the meat—if you want it.”
“Why shouldn’t we want it?” asked David.
“Wal, bull-moose in ruttin’ time ain’t jest the best eatin’ they is, howcome I’ve et it—when I had to. I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to turn in. We’ll start ’bout five in the mornin’.”