“Well, I can’t answer all that,” said Sneak; “but I’ll swear I felt my knife grit agin his neck-bone.”
Joe did not desire to pursue the subject any further, and they proceeded on their way in silence, ever and anon breaking through the snow-crust. The atmosphere became still more temperate when the bright sun beamed over the horizon. Drops of water trickled down from the snow-covered branches of the trees, and a few birds flitted overhead, and uttered imperfect lays.
“Here we are,” said Sneak, halting in the midst of a clump of enormous sycamore trees, over whose roots a sparkling rivulet glided with a gurgling sound.
“I know we’re here,” said Joe; “but what are you stopping here for?”
“Here’s where I live,” replied Sneak, with a comical smile playing on his lips.
“But where’s your house?” asked Joe.
“Didn’t I say you couldn’t find it, even if you was to rub your back agin it?”
“I know I’m not rubbing against your house now,” replied Joe, turning round and looking up in the huge tree he had been leaning against.
“But you have been leaning agin my house,” continued Sneak, amused at the incredulous face of his companion.
“I know better,” persisted Joe; “this big sycamore is the only thing I’ve leant against since we started.”