“His toe turn oop,” he said. “Dese snowshoes mooch broader, too, than dose we wear here. Dese shoes made in some factory. See! They no good.”
“Like the man that wears them,” sniffed Jack. “Then you think, Joe, that he must be a stranger up here?”
“I not know,” rejoined Joe with a shrug, “no can tell. But dose snowshoes no made oop here. Come from south, maybe. Boosh!”
“If he is a stranger, he is a good traveler anyhow,” was Tom’s comment.
Not long after, they came upon a spot where the man had halted and built a fire. Joe Picquet felt the ashes, running them slowly through his gnarled fingers.
“Boosh! He still long way in front of us,” he said disgustedly. “Dis fire been cold long time. He keel his dogs, he no look out. Boosh! Allez, Pete! Hey, Dubois!”
On they went again on the monotonous grind of the chase. They passed small lakes, sections of muskegs, swamps, rocky hillsides and deep valleys. But all lay deep under snow and ice. The sun beat down, and the glare from the snow began to affect Jack’s eyes.
“I soon feex that,” said old Joe.
“How?” asked Jack, winking and blinking, for everything looked blurred and distorted.
“I get you pair of snow-glasses. Boosh.”