—The Pauper.
The two men “hopped” the broad expanse of Patch Dam heath, springing from tussock to tussock of the sphagnum moss. In that mighty flat they seemed as insignificant as frogs, and their progress suggested the batrachian as they leaped and zigzagged.
Ahead bounced Christopher Straight, the few tins of his scanty cooking-kit rattling in the meal-bag pack on his back.
At his heels came Dwight Wade, blanket-roll across his shoulders and calipers and leather-sheathed axe in his hands. Sweat streamed into his eyes, and, athlete though he was, his leg muscles ached cruelly. The September sunshine shimmered hotly across the open, and the young man’s head swam.
Old Christopher’s keen side glance noted this. With the veteran guide’s tactful courtesy towards tenderfeet, he halted on a mound and made pretence of lighting his pipe. There was not even a bead of perspiration on his face, and his crisp, gray beard seemed frosty.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” blurted the young man in blunt outburst. His knees trembled as he steadied himself after his last leap.
“It ain’t exactly like strollin’ down the shady lane, as the song says,” replied old Christopher, with gentle satire. He looked away towards the fringe of distant woods.
“We could have kept on around by the Tomah trail, Mr. Wade, but I reckon you got as sick as I did of climbin’ through old Britt’s slash. And until he operated there last winter it used to be one of the best trails north of Castonia. I blazed it myself forty years ago.”
“And just a little care in felling it would have left it open,” cried the young man, indignantly.