“Sure I saw that sombrero-covered toothpick,” said the ticket-man. “He asked me if this was the open season for Indians and moose.”
“That’s Hartley,” sighed Connorton. “He’s as likely to shoot one as the other. What did he do then?”
“Bought a mackinaw that would dazzle your eyes and a ticket to Temagami and went on with the train—said the Indians were too tame for real sport here. I couldn’t see what he wanted of a mackinaw in summer, but he said he liked the color scheme.”
“What’s Temagami?” asked Connorton.
“Temagami Forest Reserve.”
“I knew it,” groaned Connorton. “Headed for the wilderness!”
IRA HARTLEY lay stretched in front of a camp-fire on the shore of Lake Wausauksinagami. It had been necessary to cover two portages and three lakes to reach this spot; but it certainly gave him the seclusion that he sought. No human habitation marred the shore-line of the lake, although another camp-fire, seen faintly between two of the many islands, showed that he was not in sole possession. The other camp, however, was several miles away, so he was quite alone, except for Joe Lightfoot, his Indian guide; and supreme content was reflected in face and pose.
True, he had not caught many fish, owing to his own inexpertness with rod and line rather than to any lack of fish to be caught; but this was a matter of indifference to him. He had promised himself this outing long before. He had no particular reason for wanting it, except that he had heard so much of the joys of life in the open that he had resolved to try it as soon as opportunity offered; but that was enough for one of his whimsically impulsive nature, and an increasing desire to try it had influenced him to some extent in closing with Connorton in the matter of his invention. He liked to be alone; and surely one could ask for nothing better in such circumstances than an Indian guide who spoke tersely when he spoke at all.
The Indian, having cleaned up after supper, squatted with his pipe a little distance from the fire. Back of him was the shelter-tent under which Hartley slept, and back of that lay the forest. On the other side of the fire, the lake shimmered in the moonlight and the water rippled soothingly on the shore. So restfully beautiful was the scene that it affected the spirits of both white man and red, and they smoked in silence for some time.
“Joe,” remarked Hartley at last, “this fosters a tranquillity that makes me think I’d like to live here all the time. I’ve never seen or felt anything just like it.”