"Wouldn't you like to sing for your supper, like little Tommy Tucker?" said Armstrong.
"Excellent idea! As you know, I've got a select and extensive repertoire, and--hallo! Here's my little dog Bingo."
A retriever came trotting out of the wood, stopped in the middle of the clearing, and gazed for a moment inquiringly at the tent, just erected; then turned tail and trotted back.
"A very gentlemanly dog," said Pratt. "No loud discordant bark, no inquisitive snuffling; evidence of good breeding and a kind master."
"Hi, there!" called a loud voice. "What are you doing on my land? Who the deuce gave you permission to camp?"
A stout, florid, white-whiskered gentleman of some sixty years, wearing a loose shooting costume, and carrying a shot-gun under his arm, hurried across the clearing, the retriever at his heels.
"I'm sorry, sir," said Warrender, politely. "We've come up the river, and this is the first suitable place we've found. If we had known----"
"Known!" interrupted the stranger. "You knew it wasn't common land--public property. If you didn't know, any one about here would have told you."
"Just so, sir. But we understood that a party had camped here a short while ago, and----"
"You understood, boy? And where did you get your information?"