“Where in time did you drop from?” I howled, and then, with my hands around my mouth: “I’ve killed a moose! I’ve killed a moose! There he is!”
Not a sound from Shacky or Zoëtique—I couldn’t understand any of it. Why were they there? Why weren’t they surprised to see us? Why didn’t they answer? However, they paddled steadily on, and as they got close I saw that Shacky was looking rather odd.
“What’s up,” I asked. “Can’t you talk English? Aren’t you glad I’ve killed him?”
“Fine!” answered Shacky with a sort of effort about it that I couldn’t make out. “Whooping good shot!” he said, and the boat ran in on the bank and I squatted on the bow to hold her. Shacky proceeded to get out, but he didn’t look at me, and Zoëtique, who’s generally all smiles and winning ways, was black as thunder—there was something abnormal in the situation which I couldn’t get on to. “Corking good shot,” he went on in a forced sort of way. “The moose went down like the side wall of a church.”
“How do you know?” I threw at him, for his manner irritated me.
“Know?” Shacky laughed a queer laugh. “Of course I know. Didn’t I see him?”
“See him?” I repeated. “Where were you? What’s this lake, anyway, and what are you doing here?”
Shacky looked at me hard enough then. “What in thunder do you mean?” he asked with an astonished stare.
“Mean? I mean that,” I yapped. “There’s something about this I don’t grasp. Do you know what this pond is? For I don’t.”
Shacky’s lower jaw actually dropped, the way you read about in books. He stood and gaped. “What! You don’t—know—where you are?” he jerked out. “Why, this is the lower still-water of the Rivière aux Isles—just below where you sent me to watch, you know.”