"You make me envious," he said, rising and putting on another log; "but if I can be with you only one week, I 'm going to make the most of it. No turning in before eleven-thirty while I 'm here."
"I 'll make it one with you any time you say, John." Underneath the banter we heard the undercurrent of deep affection. "You 'll be up here two or three times during the winter, and next summer you 've promised to camp with Jamie and the Andrés, father and son, and me, for two months on the Upper Saguenay. Speaking of André, père, Jamie, have you redeemed the promise you gave me last summer?"
Jamie twisted his long length in his chair before answering. "Yes, in a way."
"What does 'in a way' mean? What promise?" asked the Doctor eagerly. Mr. Ewart answered for him.
"It was about André—old André's story of his voyage to the Columbian Exposition in 'ninety-three. Have you written it up?"
"In a way I have, yes."
"Well, Jamie Macleod," I exclaimed, half impatiently, "for lack of originality, commend me to you to-night!"
I was afraid I should not hear the story. I exulted in the thought that my intuition concerning a second R. L. Stevenson in Jamie Macleod, was to prove correct. Jamie looked over at me and smiled provokingly.
"Come on, Boy, out with it!" said the Doctor encouragingly. "I 'm willing to be bored with your literary style for the sake of hearing dear old André's story rehashed by a young aspirant for honors."
"Have you seen anything of this?" Mr. Ewart turned to Mrs. Macleod.