“So you’re safe as a meadow mouse in his hole!” Jeanne said happily.
A half hour later she was seated at a long table pouring syrup on steaming pancakes. A sturdy, bronze-faced young man sat at her side.
“Are you the moose-trapper?” she asked timidly.
“Why, yes.” The young man’s hearty laugh reassured her. “Yes, that’s what you might call me.
“Like to see one trapped?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes! Oh, yes, I’d love it!” Jeanne cried quickly.
“All right. You and Vivian come along with me after breakfast. We’ve baited the trap with some very tempting birch twigs. We’ll watch it from the ridge above. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d get one. Anyway, you’ll see the trap.”
Donning mackinaws and heavy sweaters a half hour later, they crept out into the frosty air of morning—Jeanne, Vivian, Sandy MacQueen, and the moose-trapper.
Snow lay thick everywhere. About the ends of ridges it had been blown clear, only to be found piled in drifts not far away. In quiet spots it was soft and deep. Only the use of snowshoes made travel possible. In silence they marched single file up the rise at the back of the house, then through a forest of spruce and birch to the barren rocky ridge above.
From this vantage point they could see far out over the dark endless waters of Lake Superior. But this did not interest them. Their eyes were focused on a narrow stretch of low growing timber almost directly beneath them.