They worked in silence for half an hour, hilling the potatoes side by side.
“I’d like to know why he left her in the pirogue. Why he didn’t bring her all the way,” said Ben, pausing and leaning on his hoe.
“How far down did he bring her?” returned McAllister.
“I don’t know.”
“Likely he was scared. Maybe the wardens were close onto his heels. It looks like he figgered on just coming part way with her, by his having the letter to your ma already written.”
Again they fell to work and for ten minutes the hoes were busy. Then McAllister straightened his back.
“It’s years since I was last on French River,” he said. “I’d like fine to take another look at that country. We’d maybe learn something we don’t know if we got right on the ground. We wouldn’t have to be gone for long. Two days up, one day for scouting ’round and one day for the run home—four or five days would be plenty.”
“When can we go?”
“Not before haying, that’s a sure thing. Between haying and harvest is the best time, I reckon. I feel real curious about Dick Sherwood’s affairs now—more curious than I’ve felt for years.”
“He sounds mighty interesting to me! and I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that you were wrong when you said the woods had been too much for his gentility, Uncle Jim.”