A part of this comment was beyond Joe, but he caught the main idea. “Spoil quick,” he suggested.
“Yes, that’s true, too,” admitted Hartley. “The white man certainly does spoil nature wherever he settles. I suppose I’d build a cabin first, which wouldn’t be so bad; then I’d think I had to have a bungalow, which would be crowding things a little; next I’d want a two-story house and a steam-launch, and after that I’d put in a telephone and move back to the city. Yes, you’re right, Joe: no white man could settle here without spoiling it. But it just suits my humor now. If anybody comes to disturb us, Joe, do me the favor of throwing him into the lake.”
Joe, being a man of few words, merely grinned, but a moment later he held up his hand for silence.
“Canoe coming,” he announced.
“Nonsense!” returned Hartley, after vainly trying to catch some sound other than that of the rippling water and the rustling leaves.
“Canoe coming,” repeated Joe, positively.
A few minutes later even Hartley’s ears caught the swish of a paddle; and far out on the lake a black spot could be seen in the silvery path of the moonlight on the water.
“You’re right, Joe, as usual,” he conceded; “but,” he added whimsically, “don’t forget your duty—into the water he goes! I will not be disturbed!”
In brief time a canoe, containing three men and a larger stock of supplies than Connorton had thought it possible to get into so small a space, shot plainly into view. Connorton himself, anxious and uncomfortable, occupied a position on some boxes and bags amidships; Paulson was in the bow, and the guide, Jim Redfeather, was in the stern.