“Well!” he exclaimed, “I suppose it’s time to corral a legion of guide-book adjectives and launch ’em at yonder mass of silver and green glories, but it’s all too big. It calls for silence. A fellow doesn’t gush in a cathedral, unless he doesn’t belong there.” He sat looking over the water for perhaps an hour, contented in the restful vista around him. “I wish Aunt Elizabeth could see this,” he muttered finally. “Then she might understand why I like it. Wonder who owns that strip of land opposite? I’d like to. Great Scott! but my arm’s sore where he poked me.”
A soft tread startled him. He swung round to find Hoss Avery, shod with silent moosehide, a Winchester across his arm, standing a few feet away.
CHAPTER IV—THE COMPACT
“After fresh meat?” asked Ross.
“Nope. Lookin’ fur a man.”
Avery’s good eye closed suggestively and he grinned. Standing his rifle in the crotch of a cedar, he drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket and carefully shaved a pipeful from it. Then he smoked, squatting beside David as he gazed across the lake.
“Purty lake, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” replied David.
“Chuck full of trout—big fellers, too. Ever do any fishin’?”
“A little. I like it.”