“That's what I was afraid of.” Beveridge turned to his companions, adding, “You see, we've got back near the lake.”
At the sound of strange voices, the boy came down the stairs and stood in a corner, gazing at the strangers, and holding his book behind him.
“How far off is the Lake, Mr. Lindquist?”
“How—what's that you say?”
“How far off is the Lake?”
“What Lake?”
“Lake Huron, of course.”
“Lake Huron?—Oh, twenty,—twenty-two mile.”
“That's another story!” exclaimed Wilson. But Beveridge, evidently fearing his assistant's tongue, gave him a look that quieted him. The faces of the four travellers all showed relief.
The bread and milk were ready now, and they fell to, joking and laughing as heartily as if their only care had been a camp outfit somewhere in the woods; but all the time the three were watching Beveridge, awaiting his next move. It came, finally, when the last crumb of bread had disappeared and the plates had been pushed back.