"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."
"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see—all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."
Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.
"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."
Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.
"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.
"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin' around—unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."
Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.
"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin' special on your solitary wanderin's?"
"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin' in—same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like your own fist, don't it?"