“And next year we want to go to high school on the mainland,” Vivian put in.
“We’ve got nearly sixty dollars,” Violet concluded, “but of course that’s not nearly enough.”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Violet said, “If that really is Old Black Joe, we must manage to get him into the corral. There are a few apples left. I’ll just lead him right in.”
“Y-yes,” drawled the moose-trapper, “and after he’s in, you’ll have to feed him. He’s so old he’s almost sure to die on our hands. What we’re after is good live young moose that will stand shipping.”
“All right! All right, sir! We’ll feed him!” the girls agreed as with one voice. “And you’ll see. He’ll be the prize picture of the big show in the spring.”
Jeanne did not go over Greenstone Ridge and down to her Lost Lake next morning. It was a day of wild storm. The wind whistled and sang about the cabin. The spruce trees swayed and sighed. The wind, like a white sheet, rose and fell as it swept across the frozen surface of the harbor.
Despite all this, the three girls hunted up Old Black Joe. He had fallen asleep beneath a cluster of cedars. Had the girls not found him, this sleep might well have been his last. As it was, only by eager coaxing and reluctant flogging were they able at last to usher him into the trap that was in truth a haven.
“There!” Vivian exclaimed. “Now we have let ourselves in for a winter’s work. That moose-trapper does not like bringing in boughs any too well. He’ll surely hold us to our bargain.”
“But I’m sure poor Old Black Joe needs a friend,” said Jeanne.
“And he’ll pay us back, you’ll see!” said the sentimental Violet. “Don’t forget that line about casting your bread on the waters.”