It was an almost unprecedented honor for a first year boy. The privilege of making such an expedition alone with one of the guides was reserved for the older boys, whose experience and training fitted them for the “roughing” which such a trip usually involved. Walter fairly walked on air when he left Dr. Merriam to seek Big Jim and make the necessary arrangements. He found the guide tinkering with a jack-light.
“Dr. Merriam says——” began Walter.
“I know all about it, son,” interrupted the guide. “You an’ me’ll be pardners for a couple o’ days, and we’ll start before daylight to-morrow morning. Rustle round now and get your picter machine ready. I reckon Mr. Peaked Toes will be a mighty unsartin subjec’, a leetle mite bashful. If you don’t get him th’ first shot, ’tain’t likely he’ll wait fer a second, so it’s up to you t’ hev everythin’ in workin’ order. Run over an’ tell cookie thet I want two loaves o’ bread, a slab o’ bacon, some butter in a wide-mouth jar, flour, salt, cocoa an’ sugar fer a two days’ trip. We’re goin’ light, so you won’t need t’ bring nothin’ but yer fish rod, blankets, sneaks an’ an extra handkercher. Better turn in early, fer we want t’ start at four o’clock sharp. Hev cookie put up a lunch. Now skip!”
At quarter of four the next morning Walter slipped out of the wigwam. The moon had not yet set, while in the east appeared the first faint flush of the coming day. The forest lay black and still. For a moment or two he shivered in the chill of the outer air after the warmth of the wigwam. There was a light in the guides’ cabin, and thither he made his way at once.
Just outside the door stood a pack basket, a tightly rolled blanket lashed across it, and the handle of a frying-pan protruding from the top. Big Jim’s favorite paddle leaned against it. As Walter approached, the door opened and the guide stepped out.
“Hello, pard!” said he. “I was jes’ comin’ over t’ pull yer out o’ yer blankets. Come in here an’ hev a cup o’ hot cocoa an’ stow thet snack away; it’s easier t’ carry inside than out.”
When Walter had gulped down the hot drink and eaten the lunch put up for him by the cook he felt ready for anything.
As they took their way down the trail to the lake the hoot of a great horned owl suddenly broke the silence and wakened startled echoes on Old Scraggy.
“Whooo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Whooo-hoo-hoo!”
“Ole Fly-by-night must hev had poor huntin’ last evenin’,” said the guide. “Do you see him, son?”