“Trap foxes, minks, martin. Good money in trappin’,” was the old-timer’s reply.
Of course, the boys had come rushing home bursting with the news that they could make money all winter long trapping.
To their surprise they saw Lawrence’s father’s smiling face draw into sober lines.
“No, boys,” he said quietly. “Not that. Anything but trapping. It’s too cruel. I’d rather you went out with a gun.”
“But we haven’t a gun,” Lawrence protested.
“That’s right,” the father agreed. “And it’s not to be regretted.
“You see, boys,” his face took on a strange look, “when I was about ten years old I had a dog I thought the world and all of. He didn’t cost a lot of money. Never won any prizes at dog shows. But his hair was kinky, his eyes alive with fun and his bark a joyous sound to hear. No boy ever had a more faithful friend than good old Bing.
“And then,” his voice grew husky, “well, you see there was a man who lived all by himself down by the river, Skunk McGee they called him. Never amounted to much, he didn’t. But he trapped enough skunks and muskrats to pay for his groceries.
“Our farm was along the river, on both sides. Father told him more than once not to set his traps on our farm.
“One time in the dead of winter, way down below zero, old Bing didn’t come home. I was worried but father said, ‘He’s gone to the neighbors and they took him in on account of its being so cold.’