“You don’t find no better chimley nor him in Fredericton nor Noo York nor Muntree-hall,” he said.
Then, working by the increasing illumination from the hearth, he raised a square of poles from the floor—a thing that looked more like a miniature raft than a door—and propped it across the low entrance of the cave.
“He have two good hinges made of ol’ boot las’ winter, but some darn b’ar come along an’ bust him in, I guess,” he explained.
“Don’t apologize,” said Tom, kicking off his snowshoes and throwing aside his fur cap and leather coat. “If I had been the bear I would have stayed right here till spring, once I had forced the door.”
He sat down on a heap of dry brush close to the fire. Mick went to the far end of the cave, to investigate the condition of the stores which he had left there the winter before.
“That b’ar stop plenty long enough!” he exclaimed. “He eat all the prune an’ all the backum, darn his long snout!”
“Is that so!” cried Tom, now keenly interested. “And what about the molasses?”
“He don’t git that molas’, no,” replied Mick. “He don’t have no corkscrew ’long with him that trip, I guess.”
“And the buckwheat meal? How about that?”
“Buckwheat a’ right, too.”