When Lyndsay walked up the beach at the Island Camp, it was already dark. In the dinner-tent, on camp-stools, the two men were gaily discussing such events as in a fishing camp are always uppermost—how this or that salmon behaved, the weather, the water, or the eternal black-flies.
The cook had just set on the table a dish of broiled salmon, and said, as he did so:
“There’s a canoe at the beach—Mr. Lyndsay, I think.”
“Come to ask your intentions, Fred,” said Ellett, laughing.
“Hush, I hear him coming. I wonder what it is he wants.” As Carington spoke, he threw open the fly of the tent. “Come in, Mr. Lyndsay; you are just in time. Bring the soup back, Jim.”
“Thanks. How are you, Mr. Ellett? Yes, I will dine with you, and with pleasure. No soup, thank you,” and he sat down.
For a while there was the ordinary talk of the river, and when, finally, they were left with the tobacco and cigars, Lyndsay having declined the rye whisky, he said:
“I came up to get a little help from you. We have had to-day a very singular and quite unpleasant incident. There is no one can overhear us?”
“No one. I need hardly say how heartily we are at your service. Pray go on. May I ask what has troubled you?”