"Hello, Goodine, you're just in time," he cried cheerfully.
At that, Turk lay down again and gnawed at the bone.
"Good day, Mr. Rayton," replied the trapper.
He carried a rifle under his arm, and an axe and small pack on his shoulder. He advanced, laid his axe and pack on the ground, and shook hands with the Englishman. He was a handsome man, younger than the farmer by a year or two, perhaps, and not so tall by a couple of inches. His eyes were large and dark, and just now had a somewhat sullen light in their depths. His face was swarthy and clean-shaven. He leaned his rifle against an upheaved root, and sat down on the log beside Rayton.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"No," replied the Englishman, "How about you?"
"I've shot my three head already. I'm just cruisin' now, keepin' an eye open for b'ar and fixin' up a few dead falls. Plenty of signs of fur this year."
"Glad to hear it; but you don't look as gay as usual for all that. But help yourself, Dick. Help yourself, and here's the flask."
Goodine removed his wide felt hat, smiling reflectively. "Thank'e," he said, and took up a sandwich. Half of it was gone—and he ate slowly—before he spoke again. "Well, I don't feel gay," he said.
"What's the trouble?"