“Beyond this is a hopeless wilderness, my dear; and to-morrow, Sunday, we shall go up and look at it. And you shall draw a little, if you are wicked enough, and I will make some word sketches.” They were now poling along close to the farther shore.
“Who is that fishing across the river?”
“It must be the island camp men.”
Rose set her opera-glass and looked. In a moment she put it down, conscious that the man in the boat was doing as to her precisely the thing she had done. She had a queer feeling that she did not like it; why, she would have been puzzled to say.
“Who are they? Oh, yes, I remember; you spoke of them before.”
“One is Mr. Oliver Ellett. I think he must be Oliver Ellett’s son. We were at Harvard. The other is a Mr. Carington.”
“He’s an old hand up here. Fished here a heap these years. Casts an awful nice line. Seed him yesterday. Shot a seal last week, they was a-tellin’ me.”
“I should hate a man that could shoot a seal,” said Rose. “They look so human, and, then, they can be taught to talk. He can’t be a nice man.”
“Them seals spiles the fishin’, Miss Rose. They ain’t got no business to spile the fishin’. As for them seals a-talkin’, that’s a pretty large story, miss; whatever, I don’t go to doubt you heerd ’em.”
“But it is true.”