“‘Civilised man,’” echoed March, turning up his nose (a difficult feat, by the way, for his nose by nature turned down). “An’ pray what’s ‘civilised man’ that he should think everything’s wasted that don’t go in at his own eyes, or up his own nose, or down his own throat? eh?”
Bertram laughed slightly (he never laughed heartily). “You are a severe critic, friend.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care, what sort o’ cricket I am; but this I do know, that roses are as little wasted here as in your country—mayhap not so much. Why, I tell ye I’ve seen the bars smell ’em.”
“Indeed.”
“Ay, an’ eat ’em too!”
“That was not taking a poetical view of them,” suggested Bertram.
“Perhaps not, but it was uncommonly practical,” returned March, laughing.
The conversation was abruptly terminated at this point by a flock of wild ducks, which, ignorant of the presence of the two youths, swept close past their heads with a startling whirr. The artist leaped backwards, and March, partly in the exuberant glee of his heart and partly to relieve his own startled feelings, gave utterance to a hideous yell.
“Hi! hallo!” roared Big Waller, starting up and replying to the yell with compound interest. “Wot’s to do? Bars or savages—which? Oh! savages I see,” he added, rubbing his eyes, as he observed March laughing at him. “Ha! lad, d’ye know there’s a sort o’ critter in other diggins o’ this here world as they calls a hi-eeno, or somethin’ o’ that sort, as can laugh, it can; so you’re not the only beast as can do it, d’ye see!”
The camp was now thoroughly roused, and the trappers set about making preparations for a start; but little was said. It is generally the case at early morning—at least among healthy men who have work to do before breakfast in the wilderness—that tongues are disinclined to move. After the first somewhat outrageous and rather unusual burst, no one spoke again, while they carried their goods down to the water’s edge, except in a short grumpy way when an order or a remark was needful. In about ten minutes after the utterance of Big Waller’s roar, they were in their places in the little red canoe, paddling blithely up the river.