“HOW d’ye like to hole up with me this winter and try yer luck a-trappin’?” asked Uncle Dave as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
“Fine!” Fred responded enthusiastically, “that is, if mother could be cared for.”
“Is she dependin’ on you?”
“Yes, partly; her little farm doesn’t pay much now that she has to let it out on shares; and she’s getting too old to do much for herself. I came up here to earn something to help her. It was our plan to spend the winter in the city so that I could finish high school; but my bad luck has upset all that. I shouldn’t care for myself so much, but I’m anxious for mother.”
Uncle Dave listened thoughtfully. “Wall, boy,” he said cheerily, “many’s the time I’ve had to find a new trail by makin’ it. This idee came to me last night, but I didn’t say anything till I’d slept on it. We might make a good haul by hitchin’ up together. I’m gittin’ a little too stiff to chase around after the traps, but I kin skin beaver and stretch the hides as spry as ever; and I reckon you kin larn the business quick enough if you’ll listen to me. There are some streams up here that are full o’ fur—flat-tails and mink—and otter, too, though they ain’t so plenty. I b’lieve we kin make some money.”
Fred’s heart lightened as he saw this clearing through his thicket of troubles. “I’ll do it in a minute,” he said, “if I can find a way to make mother comfortable.”
“As to that,” said Uncle Dave, “I think I kin let you hev some money out of my rainy day savin’s. You can pay me when we cash our pelts in the spring.”
“That’s mighty good of you,” responded the boy, “but I’m afraid you are too generous.”
“Tut, tut, boy! jest write your mother and make it right with her. I’ll do the rest.”
So the plan was settled.