Field was looking out through the trees toward the wharf and boats at the head of the lake. He turned sharply and answered: "Phil, you're a prig. I'll do nothing of the kind."
"We've been here long enough, Dan," Philip went on, taking no notice of the rudeness except in his manner. "I shall go north in the morning. I wish you would come with me."
"The deuce you do!" Field retorted. "You may do as you please. We came to stay as long as we enjoyed it here, and there's nothing to go for, that I know of."
No more was said. Colman went to bed, and Field sat smoking by the window. After a while he forgot his cigar, and it went out. He heard the wind whispering among the trees that almost brushed his face. Through the branches he got glimpses of the lake placid under the moon, and the black breadths of shadow below the opposite hills. He sat a long while, and the house became still. He seemed alone with the night, and the hush and awe of it touched him and moulded his thought. It was very late when he got up at last. The lamp was still burning, and Field had not taken off his hat. He went over and sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at his sleeping friend until the latter opened his eyes.
"Phil," said Field, "you're not a prig, but I'm a fool. I'm coming with you in the morning."
"All right, Dan," Philip answered. "I'm glad you are coming. Good-night."
They went on north next day with no definite plan, came to the lower lake and the old fort on the cliff, and, taking a great liking to the place, lingered in the neighborhood from day to day. They happened one evening upon a queer, secluded public-house across the lake, where they fell in with a long, lean, leathery young native, who appeared to be a guide and waterman, and told them stories of the hunting and fishing among the lakes and mountains in a vein of unconscious humor and a low, even, husky voice which the friends found very agreeable. They met him again at a fair and horse-race at Scalp Point, and found their liking for him increased. Finally, they were to go south at noon on Friday, and then put it off till the night boat. After supper they took out the skiff from the rocky landing for a last row. They pulled round under the dark cliffs that rose sheer from the water and were crowned with the wall of the old fort, the cliffs themselves seamed across with strata of white, like mortar-lines of some Titanic masonry. They gave chase to a tug puffing northward half a mile to the right, towing two or three canal-boats through the still water and the stiller night. Then a sail came ghostily out of the shadow astern, and stole on them as they drew away and waited for it. By and by the boat crept up, dropped away a little from the light wind, and passed close to leeward. There was one man in her sitting in the stern, and the whole made hardly a sound. They knew the man at the tiller: it was the long fellow again. He took them in, and they talked as they drifted on. The lights behind the locusts fell far astern.
"Come, come!" said Colman at last: "this won't do. We have a long pull now, and we're to be off at two in the morning."
Field turned and asked the young fellow if he was engaged for a week or two. No, not especially: he had been running parties a good deal off and on, but they were getting pretty thin now, and there was not much call for boats.
"Will you go with me on a gunning and fishing cruise through the lakes?" asked Field; and the long fellow said he'd go with him as soon as any other man, and when should they start? "To-morrow morning," answered Field, "any time you like."