"What's that?" almost shouted Steve, "say, Uncle Jim, you're just trying to give me taffy now, sure you are."
"That's where you're mistaken Steve," said the trapper, smiling at the horrified expression on the boy's face.
"But—you don't mean to say you eat muskrats?" demanded Steve.
"Do I? Well, you wait and see how I'll tackle these this very evening. And if we're lucky enough to find a third one in my other set trap, why, you boys can have a look in, too."
"Me eat rats?" cried Steve, scornfully. "Mebbe I might if I had to do it or starve to death; but not when I've got other stuff to line my stomach with, I'm no Chinaman, Uncle Jim."
"Well, you'll change your tune before long," remarked the other, "and it's a mistake to class these clean little animals with common rats. The Indian name for him is musquash, and thousands of people appreciate the fact that his meat is as sweet as that of a squirrel."
"And I've been told," said Max, "much more tender."
"That's a fact," declared Jim, "I've got so I never try to fry a squirrel nowadays unless he's been parboiled first. They're the toughest little critters that run around on four legs."
When they arrived at the third trap it was found to contain another "victim of misplaced confidence," as Old Jim called it.
"Plenty to go around now, boys," remarked the trapper.