"Hi, Joe." Andy shook the warden's extended hand. "You're looking great."
"I may be good for a few days yet. What's on your mind?"
"I need your advice."
"So?"
"I've stocked my swamp with muskrats and—"
Andy told of the six pairs of muskrats he had planted in his swamp. He spoke of their misadventures with the fox and bobcat and of raiding great horned owls. But in spite of losses, the survivors had produced thirty-eight young. They had not only adjusted themselves to the swamp but had learned how to protect their babies. Naturally, there would be some losses among the young, but, as far as Andy knew, there hadn't yet been any. He had ordered twenty more mated pairs, which were due next week. He knew he'd lose some, perhaps half or even more, but some would survive and multiply. Next spring, when muskrat pelts were at their best, he'd harvest a few, if conditions so warranted. If not enough muskrats survived the winter, he'd let them go another season or more. He hoped that, over the years, he might build up enough of a muskrat population so that harvesting the surplus every year would be profitable. However, he had no illusions of great wealth.
When he was finished, Joe Wilson tamped a blackened pipe full of tobacco, lighted it and puffed soberly for a moment. Then he turned to Andy.
"Seems to me you're doing all right by yourself. Why do you need my advice?"
"Luke Trull has found out about it."
"Oh, gosh!"