"What's that?" asked Cockney, with a frown.
"Our tent. If we could pitch it somewhere along the bank of the river here——"
"You can pitch it into the river—and that's all."
"But we——"
Cockney kicked the canvas off the trail, drew a cigarette and match from his pockets, lit them in a leisurely way—and dropped both into the canvas. A second match he struck and calmly held to a loose corner. The cloth, dry and brittle in Alberta air, smouldered a moment, then burst into flame.
Stamford solemnly leaned over the blaze to fan it with his hand. Mary stood laughing. Isabel was divided between alarm and wonder. Only the Professor seemed undisturbed. He stood watching the growing blaze with interest.
"As a raw backwoodsman I would suggest starting the blaze on the side toward the wind."
Stamford followed the suggestion with success.
A heavy smoke rose and swirled about them, pungent and stifling. The Professor whiffed it once or twice and turned his back on it.
"Fancy, my dear, thinking of living in a tent that smells like that. I can't imagine any other form of fumigation being sufficient."