“Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av it.”
The doctor gave it up. “Drive on,” he said. “But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level.”
“Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods,” replied Tom.
“Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the camp.”
“It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is.”
As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.
“Hello, Yonie!” cried Tommy. “What's afther gittin' ye up so early?”
“It is no sleep for dis,” cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat.
The doctor sprang from the sleigh. “Let me look at your throat.”
“It's the docthor, Yonie,” explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination.