“Wot’s ado now?” inquired Bounce.
“There ought to be prairie-hens here,” replied the other.
“Oh! do stand still, just as you are, men!” cried Bertram enthusiastically, flopping down on a stone and drawing forth his sketch-book, “you’ll make such a capital foreground.”
The trappers smiled and took out their pipes, having now learned from experience that smoking was not detrimental to a sketch—rather the reverse.
“Cut away, Gibault,” said Bounce, “an’ take a look at the edge o’ yon bluff o’ poplars and willows. I’ve obsarved that prairie-hens is fond o’ sich places. You’ll not be missed out o’ the pictur’, bein’ only a small objict, d’ye see, besides an ogly one.”
The jovial Canadian acknowledged the compliment with a smile and obeyed the command, leaving his companions to smoke their pipes and gaze with quiet complacency upon the magnificent scene. Doubtless, much of their satisfaction resulted from the soothing influence of tobacco on their empty stomachs.
“I say,” whispered Waller, removing his pipe and puffing from his lips a large cloud of smoke, which rolled upwards in the form of a white ring, “I say, Bounce, I guess it’s past my comprehension what he means by a foreground. How does we make a capital foreground?”
Bounce looked at his companion in silence for a few seconds; then he removed his pipe, pursed his lips, frowned heavily, looked at the ground, and repeated slowly, “How does we make a capital foreground?”
Waller nodded.
“Ay, that’s it.” Bounce resumed his pipe for a few seconds, and then said with an air of the utmost profundity—