“That’s all right, old man,” Bob assured him, with a hearty slap on the back. “Just forget it.”
“Non, no forgeet,” the Frenchman insisted. “Some time I do sumtin for you, oui.”
“As if you hadn’t fifty times over,” Jack broke in. “But come on. There goes the dinner horn and I’m hungry enough to eat all the cook has got, so if you folks want anything, you’d better get a hustle on.”
“How about those trout?” Bob asked, as he started for the door.
“Guess they’ll have to wait for supper,” Jack called back. “I noticed that they were still down there in the box,” he added, as Bob caught up with him.
“Well, we’ll dress them after dinner and they’ll go pretty good tonight I reckon, even if I did have my mouth all made up for them for dinner.”
Dinner over, they, together with Jacques, cleaned the fish and took them to the kitchen where the cook promised to give them a big feast that night.
About four o’clock the three friends went down to the wharf for a look at the lake. Not a single bit of ice was to be seen.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jack asked, as he looked out over the heaving water. “Where do you suppose it all goes to so soon?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bob replied, and then asked: “How about it, Jacques? Where does the ice go?”