"Why, Lucky."
"But what do you mean queer?"
"Well, he looks like an Indian and he acts like an Indian and we have it from no less authority than the great Pete Slinger that he is an Indian, but he talks like a Canuck and has an Irish name. Can you beat it?"
"But he says heap once in a while and just a minute ago he referred to you as a white boy. That's Indian all right."
At last they reached the top of the long hill and the trail dipped down on the other side in an almost endless reach. It was four o'clock when they reached the edge of a thick growth of trees and, as it was nearly dark, Lucky proposed that they make camp for the night. Both boys greeted the suggestion eagerly for, although they would hesitate to acknowledge it, they were tired. Beneath the broad branches of a giant spruce, which stood just within the edge of the forest, the ground was nearly bare of snow and Lucky choose it as a good place.
"White boys cut plenty boughs while Indian unpack stuff," he suggested as he pulled two small, but sharp axes from beneath the canvas which covered the load.
By the time they had enough of the fragrant boughs cut to satisfy him, the Indian had the dogs fed and fixed for the night, what they needed unpacked and a fire started.
"Talk about efficiency," Jack declared as he brought in his third armful of boughs.
"He's it," Bob laughed.
"Hope he's as good a cook as he is at other things," Jack whispered.