The many-voiced night of the woods descended close about the little camp fire, and its soft breezes wafted stray sparks here and there like errant stars. The newcomer, with shining eyes, breathed deep in satisfaction. He was keenly alive to the romance, the grandeur, the mystery, the beauty of the littlest things, seeming to derive a deep and solid contentment from the mere contemplation of the woods and its ways and creatures.
“I just DO love this!” he cried again and again. “Oh, it's great, after all that fuss down there!” and he cried it so fervently that the other men present smiled; but so genuinely that the smile had in it nothing but kindliness.
“I came out for a month,” said he suddenly, “and I guess I'll stay the rest of it right here. You'll let me go with you sometimes hunting, won't you?” he appealed to them with the sudden open-heartedness of a child. “I'd like first rate to kill a deer.”
“Sure,” said Thorpe, “glad to have you.”
“My name is Wallace Carpenter,” said the boy with a sudden unmistakable air of good-breeding.
“Well,” laughed Thorpe, “two old woods loafers like us haven't got much use for names. Charley here is called Geezigut, and mine's nearly as bad; but I guess plain Charley and Harry will do.”
“All right, Harry,” replied Wallace.
After the young fellow had crawled into the sleeping bag which his guide had spread for him over a fragrant layer of hemlock and balsam, Thorpe and his companion smoked one more pipe. The whip-poor-wills called back and forth across the river. Down in the thicket, fine, clear, beautiful, like the silver thread of a dream, came the notes of the white-throat—the nightingale of the North. Injin Charley knocked the last ashes from his pipe.
“Him nice boy!” said he.