The man's accustomed aloofness had gone. His eye flashed, his brow frowned, the muscles of his cheeks contracted under his beard. In the bronze light of evening he looked like a fire-breathing statue to that great ruthless god he had himself invoked,—Success.
Wallace gazed at him with fascinated admiration.
“Then you will?” he asked tremulously.
“Wallace,” he replied again, “they'll say you have been the victim of an adventurer, but the result will prove them wrong. If I weren't perfectly sure of this, I wouldn't think of it, for I like you, and I know you want to go into this more out of friendship for me and because your imagination is touched, than from any business sense. But I'll accept, gladly. And I'll do my best!”
“Hooray!” cried the boy, throwing his cap up in the air. “We'll do 'em up in the first round!”
At last when Wallace Carpenter reluctantly quitted his friends on the Ossawinamakee, he insisted on leaving with them a variety of the things he had brought.
“I'm through with them,” said he. “Next time I come up here we'll have a camp of our own, won't we, Harry? And I do feel that I am awfully in you fellows' debt. You've given me the best time I have ever had in my life, and you've refused payment for the moccasins and things you've made for me. I'd feel much better if you'd accept them,—just as keepsakes.”
“All right, Wallace,” replied Thorpe, “and much obliged.”
“Don't forget to come straight to me when you get through estimating, now, will you? Come to the house and stay. Our compact holds now, honest Injin; doesn't it?” asked the boy anxiously.
“Honest Injin,” laughed Thorpe. “Good-by.”