Flying to the nearest tree it started to sample its queer breakfast. But one taste was enough. With a harsh scream, which was a ludicrous blending of disappointment, disgust and rage, it dropped the soap and vigorously wiped its bill on the branch on which it was sitting. Then scolding and protesting in a harsh, discordant voice, it flew to the next tree, stopping long enough to give the bill another thorough wiping on a convenient branch, only to repeat the performance on the next tree, and so on until it disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Walter laughed heartily, disgust was so clearly manifest in every motion of the bird and the torrent of invective being poured out was so very plainly aimed at him personally as the author of its discomfiture. The boy had never seen a bird of this species before, but he recognized it at once from its markings, the fine silky plumage and certain unmistakable characteristics in general appearance and actions, as a member of the jay family. It was, in fact, the Canada Jay, Perisoreus canadensis, first cousin to the blue jay, and a resident the year through of the north woods, where it is often called the moosebird.
Big Jim returned just in time to witness the last of the performance.
“Whisky Jack seems t’ think yer ain’t been usin’ him just right, son,” said he. “What yer been doin’ t’ rile him up so?”
Walter told him the incident of the soap, and the guide chuckled with enjoyment. “Serves th’ old thief right,” said he. “Why, I’ve had one of them fellers sit on my tent just waitin’ fer me t’ go out so’s he could go inside an’ steal somethin’. He’ll swipe a meal out of yer plate while yer back’s turned. Just th’ same, it’s kind o’ sociable t’ have him neighborly if yer happen t’ be all alone in th’ deep woods fifty miles from nowhar, ’specially in winter.”
“Where did he get the name of Whisky Jack?” asked Walter.
“Don’t know, son, unless it comes from an Indian name I heered a half breed in a Canada lumber camp use once. He called one o’ these jays thet hed got caught tryin’ t’ steal th’ bait from a mink trap he had set a ‘whis-kee-shaw-neesh.’ When yer say it quick it sounds something like ‘Whisky John,’ an’ I reckon maybe thet’s where th’ trappers and lumbermen got th’ name ‘Whisky Jack.’ Anyhow, thet’s what they all call him. Ever see one before?”
“No,” replied Walter, “but I knew it was a Canada Jay as soon as I saw it. You see I had read all about it in a bird book,” slyly putting just the least emphasis on the word book.
Big Jim grunted and then abruptly changed the subject. “Been a-lookin’ fer signs o’ Mr. Peaked Toes, an’ they ain’t none too plentiful. If it was two months later I should say this country hed been hunted hard. I wonder now——” he paused abruptly to gaze into the fireplace with an air of deep abstraction.
“What do you wonder?” asked Walter when the silence became oppressive.